Metanoia
by Teyke
Summary: Twenty years after Meteor, Cloud is less than entirely sane.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Twenty years after Meteor, Cloud is less than entirely sane.

Status: This story is complete, but will be posted in parts (about once a week).

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Many thanks to: My wonderful primary beta, Marilena, who took my first version and pointed out so many rough spots. Also, thanks to Quaxicoffelees, for being so encouraging on this. All mistakes that remain are my own (I'd greatly appreciate if you could point them out if/when you see any, gracious reader).

Notes: As much as possible I've stuck to FFVII and AC cannon, except for a few deliberate twists—which, I hope, are subtle and small enough be viewed as different interpretations of events, not complete contradictions. Some background, such as the WRO, is taken from DoC and On the Way to a Smile, but I've pretty much ignored cannon aside from FFVII and AC—simply because I haven't got the other source material to look at.

Oh, and I suppose I should mention that this is gen-fic. To anyone who is looking for romance: sorry, but it's not something that I write often or well. (There is a _tiny_ bit of het, I suppose…)

Spelling is Canadian.

With all that said…I hope you enjoy!

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---

Denzel leaned back in his chair and slouched, listening to Cid bicker at Shera, who rolled her eyes and swatted at him with a tea-towel. Cid, upon arriving at Barret's big, unused house in Edge, had immediately confiscated Barret's teapot—which was also large and unused, although this was thanks more to Barret's aversion to tea than to the fact that he still spent most of his time on the road, working as a prospector for new oil fields. The captain had promptly ordered Shera to brew up 'somethin' fuckin' decent', as Cid put it. In turn Shera calmly ignored him, pointing out that it was high noon in a heat stroke and far too hot for anything but iced tea.

Most of the other people in the kitchen were focused on Marlene and Yuffie, who were in the middle of an epic game of poker. At twenty-six, Marlene was more of a card shark than ever—but years of actively ruling Wutai had only sharpened Yuffie's innate ability to bluff, and with each hand huge piles of winnings would change sides. Both sat like stones, their expressions carefully controlled; every twitch or grimace or smile dripped carefully crafted manipulation. Denzel knew he'd have been cleaned out in a heartbeat by either one of them—his poker face had always sucked.

All of AVALANCHE, with relatives, had gathered in Edge just in time for the twentieth anniversaries of The World Didn't End Day. Denzel hadn't seen many of them in several years; his home, out on the frontier of civilization, kept most of his attention…as did his family. It was nice to be gathered here together again, even if he was shocked to note that Barret had gone completely grey and Cid's voice was as rusty as an old nail. Only Cait Sith and Vincent were untouched by the years—Denzel had to wonder if Vincent had even changed his clothes in all this time—but everyone appeared healthy and in good spirits…even with the spiky-haired hole in the group portrait.

Cloud had not come.

No one had expected him to put in an appearance except for Tifa, who even now kept looking up from the poker game to glance out the window; Denzel knew she'd been trying to get in touch with Cloud. Of course, she'd always been trying to get in touch with Cloud, leaving messages on his old phone number, and there never had been any sort of reply at all.

He shook his head slightly and growled to himself. _Wishful thinking._ No one had seen Cloud for fifteen years, since he'd taken off during the fifth anniversary of The World Didn't End Day.

_We don't even know if he's still alive,_ Denzel thought, and felt cold. He wished Cloud _would _show up, so that he could yell at him, tell him what a bastard he'd been for walking out on them all and leaving no explanation, no forwarding address…so he could see that the man who had saved him all those years ago, pulled him from the muck and then abandoned him, was still…there.

He saw Tifa glance out the window again—and then her jaw dropped and she hurried over to the door. Over the noise of the betting and general conversation, a low thrum filled the air. It sounded like a motorcycle, but motorcycles were generally higher-pitched—_except—_

_Fenrir. _

Denzel stared out the window as all of his words deserted him, leaving him unsure of what to think, let alone say.

---

He can feel her standing behind him as he runs his eyes over Fenrir; right now he can feel everything. The high sound from inside of Marlene talking excitedly to Barret sends minute vibrations cascading against his skin and hair. Air disturbed by the slight swirl of Vincent's cloak as the ex-Turk walks out the door causes ripples. The noise of the others—outside, and too close—is like a thousand nails driving into him, and he wishes that he could deflect _these_ missiles with his sword…not that he uses the First Tsurugi to deflect much of anything, these days.

Every living thing screams its doings at him. Once he would have cried for the simple joy of this _knowing_, this realization that something else is out there, alive, that the world is not dead and that he's not hallucinating the presence of something as simple as a living flower. Now he wishes nothing more than to return to the dead ruins of Midgar—his solace against these increasingly frequent attacks. People, with their own personal lifestreams flowing through them, are the hardest to bear.

"Cloud," Tifa says, and he barely keeps himself from wincing as he turns. Turning moves his senses, sends the knives swirling about him, leaving long trails of sparkling blood in their wake.

"It's good to see you again." She's smiling, he notices.

_It's not_, he wants to say. It's not good for him to be here, not now, not with everything crying out at him. On the trip here there was only grass and the occasional creature, far-off; their silent screams faded quickly and it was only like riding through sand. That, he could ignore. This…he cannot.

He summons up a smile he cannot feel, twisting one corner of his mouth upwards. His long greatcoat—thick enough to provide some protection in the dead of Midgar—feels like it is made out of gauze, and he really, really hopes that she's not going to touch him.

Maybe some small amount of luck remains with him, because she doesn't. It's a brief consolation. She won't stop talking, and the vibrations hurt like hell with her this close.

_Can't flinch, can't flinch…_

"You haven't changed much," Tifa says, and this time he can't tell whether or not the smile is genuine. There's grief in her eyes, and a plethora of her emotions wash over him with every word—guilt, joy, resentment, anger, hope, despair, happiness, worry—for so many reasons—that he came, that he didn't come, that she didn't see him, that he never answered the phone, that he never called, that she never tried something else, that he looks terrible, that she's aged, that he still looks younger than Vincent does—he can't match emotion to reason. It's so confusing that he almost doesn't notice that he's practically reading her mind; when he does notice, it doesn't surprise him. Why shouldn't he be able to, with her lifestream pulsating shrilly at him?

_I have changed,_ he wants to say, but the words are stuck in his throat. _Everything changed and it's still the same—I'm no different than twenty years ago—than twenty-five, twenty-seven…_

"Cloud," she says, some of the worry creeping into her voice—and then she's reaching out to _touch_ him, and he stumbles backward out of reach, some small, broken part of him crying, _Please, no, I can't take this—_

"'m sorry," he mumbles, backing away frantically, her hurt making his nerves cry out in agony. "Mistake—to come—"

It stops.

Everything goes dead, and he sags with relief. The attacks—he can think of no other word for them—grow more frequent and last longer, longer than the respites, but they still end eventually. Sight and sound seem non-existent during them, though, and it takes him a moment to return to relying upon them.

There's a hand on his arm, touching him—he can't feel it, now, past the numbness in his skin, but he can see it—it belongs to Tifa, he realizes. She's looking at him and he has no idea what the look on her face means, though it is obviously supposed to mean _something_. Her emotions are dead to him now; he cannot feel her.

"Cloud—what's going on?" she asks. There's something in her voice, some tone, but he has no idea what it is. He's too busy basking in the numbness.

"I can't stay," he mutters.

"You don't look well," says a voice from the side, and he has to look at the speaker to realize that it's Vincent. The others have come outside, now, and he hadn't noticed them moving. It's a strange, welcome sensation.

"I—" he starts, halts, as he has so many times before, but this time he is given no chance to continue; as he pauses, his senses return.

The hand on his arm—that complex, personal stream of _life_ so close, too close, _too close_—is enough to make him choke back a scream as he falls backward. They're all about him, and their beings a rasp across every fibre of his being. They're talking at once, now, their voices growing louder and the demand for his attention becomes a merciless _need_, an overwhelming insatiable hunger gnawing at his mind and why did he ever think that this was a good idea—_one last chance to see them_—because if he thought he was going to die then, he is definitely dying now.

---

Transition is instantaneous. One moment he is certain he is dying, and the next he is opening his eyes; his head hurts, but he can think, and see, and the only whispers of life are from bacteria; that's all that lives in Midgar, now. Bacteria are simple creatures, single-celled and simple—they're almost soothing, really.

_No_, he realizes as he wakes fully, _that's not all there is._ There are _people_, here, but they're far off, far enough that he can barely sense them at all.

The ring of a phone splits the air.

This sound—it doesn't hurt. It's clean, emotionless, and as dead as a rock…more dead, because rocks are closer to Gaia than cell phones. Slowly, carefully, he moves, turning his blood to acid in his veins—and then, before he can stop to think about what he's doing, he flips the phone open. It's slim, more compact than his old phone was, and it has a vaguely futuristic feel to it…although maybe that's just present-day technology. He's slipped into the past, and he spares a moment to wonder where _his _phone is. Before he'd left Midgar he'd kept it with him at all times, but he has no idea where it's gone now.

"Cloud?" asks a voice over the phone, tinny and fake. It feels no more real than the ringing. "Are—are you there?"

It's Tifa's voice, a living voice, and _it doesn't hurt_. He feels like crying from the loneliness that wells up inside him, quickly replaced by anger at his own stupidity. All these years he'd gone back to his habit of not answering the phone, for fear that he'd have an attack while talking—but hearing someone live is no different from listening to messages. Both are dead. He's cut himself off for nothing.

"Yeah," he says, his voice hoarse from dehydration and disuse—and probably screaming as well, judging from how his insides feel like jelly.

There's something like a muffled sob on the other end of the line, then the sound of the phone being handed off. He's surprised he can actually hear that, but maybe his hearing has improved, too. It doesn't hurt, though, so he doesn't give it much thought.

"We took you to a hospital, but they couldn't tell us what was wrong," Yuffie's voice echoes from the phone; she sounds so much older, more sombre, more mature than he remembers. But then, she's the Lady of Wutai now, isn't she? "We…well, we tried lots of things. Eventually we went to Cosmo Canyon. Some of the elders there have followed in Bugenhagen's footsteps. They were able to figure out—Cloud, why the _hell_ didn't you say something?"

She's angry, but not screaming; on the contrary, her voice is tightly controlled. He can't get the picture of her at twenty-one out of his head, when, at their get-together five years after Meteor, they'd all gone out and gotten drunk and she'd danced on the table. She'd looked nearly as she had at sixteen, if maybe a little fuller around the edges. It's the last real memory he has of her; the attacks were starting to get bad by that point, and he'd left for Midgar a day later. He's confused by how adult she sounds now.

It was another reason for going to that most recent gathering—to see how everyone had changed—but now that he tries to think of it, he can't remember how any of them looked. Everything else was more overwhelming.

Why hadn't he said anything, in the beginning? He'd gone to see a doctor, but the doctor was clueless. Maybe he hadn't wanted to worry them; maybe he just didn't want to talk. He can't recall; it's all hazy, just like his life before AVALANCHE.

"I can't remember," he says finally, coughing.

"Cloud, you need to sort this out," she says gently, making him blink. If it wasn't for the faint accent, he'd be more inclined to think he was talking to Tifa than Yuffie. "You _can_ sort this out, if you try, okay? We've left you supplies. Use them. When was the last time you ate anything?"

She sounds motherish, and that leads to a startling thought: maybe she _is_ a mother. She's what—thirty-six now? And she's the leader of a country that needs an heir. It's strange to think that Yuffie might have kids.

But kids or no, she has a point. A quick search of his memory comes up with nothing about eating anything. "Um," he says eloquently.

It would really, really suck if he was not just long-lived, but immortal. Not that he's tried it—it's not something he feels he wants or deserves—but the possibility has always been there in the back of his mind, a comforting escape. Yet he must have been for weeks without eating or drinking anything, and while he feels like death warmed over, it's not from lack of food.

"You are an idiot," Yuffie replies, sighing through the phone. "Look, Vincent wants to talk to you, so I'm going to hand the phone over to him, alright?"

He can hear the phone being handed off again before he has a chance to reply. There's silence for several moments, the sounds of people moving in the background, and then Vincent's voice, forever young, says, "Cloud."

"Vincent." It feels weird to be greeting him this vocally. Usually they just nod at each other, even over the phone—which is not as difficult as it might sound. Of course, that was fifteen years ago, fifteen years in which Vincent's been doing—well, something not involving coffins, he thinks—and he's been holed up with the dead.

"Do you understand?"

"No." It is an immediate response; he doesn't understand anything. He doesn't _know_ anything, except that living…hurts.

"I see." Vincent is silent for a long minute—but then he explains, in terse tones. Information is wonderful.

"You are yet tainted by Jenova."

_I knew that._

"…the last remnant of that taint. You are its last hope, Cloud. It knows it cannot take your mind through force, not with the tenuous grip it currently has…but as long as you survive, it survives as well—and so your survival is its first priority…"

His breath caught.

"To be rid fully of the taint, Gaia would have to destroy you, but you are its most powerful protector and weapon—more so than the WEAPONs, for they can never be sentient. Gaia seeks to counter Jenova, but the gifts of two such…beings…clash. They are not human enough to understand it."

"I can't work through that," he says, feeling a rush of bitterness at Yuffie's earlier words—at his own stupidity. He's been living his life out for a promise, for guilt, for nothing, and now he's tainted and it's killing him while not letting him die. He should have taken the low road a long time ago.

"You might be able to find a way." Vincent is silent for another moment, as if thinking. "Have you truly found nothing that helps?"

His throat closes up over a vehement 'NO'—because that's not true. In the beginning, he could try and push it away. Katas, meditation…that had helped. In some instances he'd been able to push it away entirely. But the attacks grew stronger, and the cost of moving began to take its toll. He'd had to flee to Midgar.

"Not anymore," he says instead, distracted by that last thought.

_Why_ had he fled to Midgar? Well, to escape the attacks, of course—but how had he known to come to Midgar? He'd never really thought about it.

"Maybe," he amends.

---

_The bar was buzzing with talk. Though it was barely quarter-full, it seemed even more crowded than normal; the personalities of everyone who was here now spilled o__ver past their physical forms, particularly Yuffie's and Cid's. Those two were currently engaged in a loud, heated game of dice, punctuated with much insults and swearing. Denzel would have been worried if Tifa hadn't quietly warned him about those two. _

_At the moment Tifa was chattering away with Cid's wife, Sherra, but Denzel could see the way that his adopted mother kept glancing at the door, even if no one else seemed to have noticed. Barret was busy teaching Marlene how to play poker—she was actually a shark at it, but Denzel wasn't about to tell Barret this and bring up the number of times she'd beaten him—along with a stuffed cat toy that was apparently a robot, and Red XIII and Vincent were talking at a table near Sherra and Tifa. Cid and Yuffie, of course, were oblivious to everything but their game. _

_It felt like_ home_, like_ family_. Or it should have—but Cloud wasn't there. Of course, there was still a lot of time left before dinner and sometimes Cloud__ was late—he'd gone out three hours ago to pick up the cake—so Denzel just settled back to sip his coke and wait. After a time he got drawn into the discussion with Red XIII and Vincent, since while Denzel was kind of nervous around adults-not-Cloud-or-Tifa, Red XIII didn't really qualify as an adult…although Vincent was doing a lot more blank-staring than talking. _

_Another hour passed, then two, and Cloud did not appear. By this time both Vincent and Red seemed to have clued in somewhat, because they both started glancing toward the door as well—at least, Denzel_ thought _Vincent was checking the door, but it was really hard to read the red-cloaked man. Interacting with Vincent was always a bit awkward. Marlene really loved him, and would go on and on about him if given the chance—in return, Denzel teased her endlessly about her_ cruuu-uuush_—but whenever Denzel had to actually talk to him, he was always hard-put to not say something stupid like, "Do you know you look like a vampire?" _

_Three hours, and now dinner was late; Tifa didn't seem to have noticed what time it was. The dice game kept getting louder, but it felt angrier to Denzel; he caught Marlene's eye and gave her a worried look that she returned with just as much concern. Barret and the robot didn't seem to have noticed, but everyone else definitely had. It didn't take six hours to get to the bakery and back—it was two if you walked. On Fenrir it should have been about twenty minutes, maybe half an hour in this rain. Getting stuff from the bakery always took an hour or two, and long lines of people buying last-minute treats for the anniversary of The World Didn't End Day could explain a bit more, but six was past ridiculous. _

_The door banged open, and Denzel looked up quickly. _

_Cloud stood in the doorway, dripping mud and water onto the deliberately large welcome mat—deliberately large because this was a bar and lots of people liked to get a warm drink in cold, rainy weather. But Cloud was long past doused; he was so drenched that even his hair was beginning to droop—what hair Denzel could see, at least. Mud covered him almost completely, coating his clothes; it looked like he'd made some attempt to get it out of his face, but the end result still left brilliant blue eyes staring out from a muddy grey mask. _

_He looked ridiculous. _

_There was a quiet round of snickering, followed by a round of barely contained, wheezing laughter, punctuated by Marlene asking innocently, in her best little-girly voice, "Cloo_-ooud, _did you get into a fight with a_ mud monster_?"_

"_And here all these years I've been chasing after you with a comb, when all I really needed to tame your hair was a mud puddle," Tifa teased him gently, but Denzel could hear the underlying edge of worry. He sympathized; _he_ was worried. Cloud wasn't crinkling his eyes happily in his strange way of smiling without actually smiling. He hadn't done so for a while, it seemed. _

"_Mm," Cloud replied, completely without eloquence. Most of Cloud's 'Hm's or 'Mm's were far more eloquent than anyone else's—Denzel figured it was probably because everyone else used actual words more than not, and didn't need to make their 'Mm's convey everything from, "This dinner was the most scrumptious thing I've tasted in ten years__, Tifa," to "GET AWAY FROM FENRIR BEFORE YOU SCRATCH IT!" But this one was completely unreadable. _

_And then Cloud just turned and climbed up the stairs, not even taking off his muddy __boots, and vanished from sight. _

_The laughter died. Tifa took a step toward the stairs, looking like she wanted to follow him, but didn't; instead it was Cid who went, after a quick conversation of glances with Vincent. _

_Dinner that night was Cloud-less, and much more subdued than the night before had been. There was no cake. There wasn't even much alcohol going around with the adults, and Yuffie didn't do anything so enthusiastic as dance on a table again. _

_Denzel later learned that Cloud had packed up a few things in his room, slipped out the back, and taken off with Fenrir. Presumably he never looked back. Certainly he didn't return. _

---

Seventeen years ago, Aeris's church was deserted. The geostigma plague was gone, and with it, reason to venture so far into the ruins of what had once been the greatest city on the planet. Nowhere else in Midgar would anything living grow; even monsters had ceased to inhabit the city due to a simple lack of food. The church's pool was still a haven, of course, but it was a long and difficult pilgrimage to find it. In a recovering world, such a trek was unfeasible.

He has avoided the church religiously since he came here.

Eighteen years ago he stopped living there and moved back in to his room over the Seventh Heaven bar. It wouldn't have made sense to have stayed; why should he live in a place dedicated to her when she didn't want him there? Or, rather, when she wanted him to be elsewhere—it wasn't that he wasn't wanted. The issue was rather the opposite.

As he looks at it now, trying not to cringe away from the feel it, he wonders if that is still true…if it was ever true.

Nineteen years ago things had been getting rough, and he'd been spending more and more time away from the bar, much to Tifa's dismay. But he couldn't help it. Then, when his geostigma had manifested, he'd started running into all kinds of problems. The Ultima Weapon was continually pale and translucent, and after he'd nearly gotten his head removed in a fight with some of the more stubborn denizens of the wastelands, he'd found the First Tsurugi waiting for him in the church, lying in the flowers.

Now he stares at the closed doors, trying to work up the courage to venture nearer. In his conversations with the others—particularly Vincent—it had come up as a popular suggestion of something that might be able to heal him. Even though the sense of life from beyond prickles at him badly, it makes sense; if he bathes himself in the presence of Gaia, the planet might be able to loosen Jenova's hold on him.

But for all the logical reasoning behind coming here, he is afraid. There is a sense of power and foreboding about the building that he has never felt before, and it fills him with dread.

_Don't be stupid. This is _her_ church. _

Cringing, he reaches for the hilt of his sword with his right hand, ready to draw it from its sheath at an instant's notice—only to realize that he left his sword in Fenrir, and he's not wearing the sheath anyway, just as he hasn't for years. He hadn't even worn it when he'd gone to that reunion party. But this place evokes memories and feelings that stir old reflexes.

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Timidly, he steps forward, closing the gap between him and the door. The power he feels emanating from beyond it frightens him.

_Stop delaying…_

Before he can over-think it—not that he hasn't already—he reaches out with his left hand and tries to push open the door. Tries is the operative word.

His left arm flares, screaming in agony, before he even manages to touch the door. He gapes at it in horror and surprise, unable to draw enough breath to scream—this is geostigma, come back to haunt him, his flesh bubbling, oozing with black, with the taint of Jenova. This is a burning, searing menace and defilement to the holy place he has tried to enter, melting away into darkness and leaving him floundering on the brink of insanity.

_I have sinned, coming here_, he thinks dazedly, unable to comprehend why everything grows dark.

---

He wakes to pain, and the sense of small, microscopic bacteria crawling about as they live and split and kill themselves, and thinks that he's woken up like this far too many times. His left arm is throbbing with agony, but when he tries to move it he finds that the sleeve of his coat is empty, although there is no blood staining the shoulder. For a long moment, all he can do is stare at it.

Then he laughs, a weak, crying laugh that leaves him gasping for air, because even that much forced movement is enough to overwhelm him after he's just had his _arm ripped off_—or dissolved, or whatever. The lack of blood makes him think that it must be cauterized somehow, but he can't bring himself to care enough to look. He's not dead; that's all that matters in the end. It means he'll never be able to fight properly again, not unless he extensively retrains himself to compensate for the sudden loss of weight and ability to balance, but that doesn't matter, not really—he hasn't fought anything for the past fifteen years except himself.

Stumbling to his feet, he flees back to his 'home'; the place with all of his supplies, and his makeshift shelter. He doesn't try the door of the church again; been there, done that, and he's got no desire to be completely armless. Or legless, as he's more inclined to kick in the door at the moment than to show the civility of opening it properly. So he hobbles away instead, sore, tired, and with ghostly pain lingering where his left arm should be.

_Maybe I can get one of those claws like Vincent_, he thinks giddily as he collapses next to the pile of preserved food, aware that he's half-hysterical from shock—and the dawning pain of being turned away. An arm might be an acceptable sacrifice if he'd gotten something in return, but he has nothing, has lost everything, and he's bitter and cold and tired. Getting a prosthetic would mean coming into contact with people—lots of people, probably. Doctors who make a living by crafting fake limbs don't live in hamlets.

The phone rings. He curses it, but it won't stop ringing. All he really wants to do is pass out again, but his body doesn't seem to be cooperating and the phone's high pitch is irritating. Briefly he considers smashing it, but if he does that his friends will probably come by to investigate. They've made sure to call every single day since they dropped him off here.

He flips it open.

"Cloud?" It's Yuffie's voice; it usually is. She'll start off the conversation and then pass him to one of two of the others. Never everyone; never more than three people per call. He wonders if they think he'll shatter from the sudden human contact, but by the time he's done talking to three people he's exhausted anyway, so it doesn't bother him what they think. "How are you doing?"

"Peachy," he says, his voice higher and quicker than usual; he thinks dimly that maybe this whole _losing your arm_ thing has fucked him up more than he thought, which means that he's really screwed. "Just peachy!"

"What happened?" she asks quickly. He imagines that he can feel her worry seeping through the phone; it's a nice daydream to just imagine it. If she were closer then there would be no need to imagine, and no way for him to daydream.

"I don't think Aeris likes me anymore," he blurts, twitching. He wants to bury his head in his hands, but his right hand is holding the phone and his left is—well, not there anymore. Instead he flops down on the ground; his hair cushions his head nicely. It's an advantage. "Or Gaia."

"Cloud?"

"Took my fucking arm," he mutters dazedly. "It's just kinda gone."

"_What?_" she cries, her voice tinny and distorted by the phone. It's not a reassuring sound, and some part of him wants to snidely point that out to her. Another part wonders—since when did he begin to expect _Yuffie_, of all people, to act like his mother? Aeris and Tifa…well, he's got a screwed up past, and they're both that type of person. But Aeris is gone—and hates him now, anyway—and Tifa always sounds like she's about to start crying over the phone. Still…Yuffie's a weird replacement.

"Vanished," he says, feeling acid well up in the back of his throat. "Tried to open the door to the church, boom. There you go. I'll be fine."

He hangs up the phone before he breaks it, dropping it to the ground so he can fumble to clutch at his left arm—or rather, his left shoulder. Damn it, nothing that doesn't exist should _hurt_ so much. The shoulder-guard is in the way, and he thinks bitterly how useless it is even as a memento; he is clearly banned from that world now. It's difficult to undo the buckles with one hand, and even harder because his hand is shaking so badly, but somehow he gets the damn thing off and throws it as hard as he can, watches it fly over the ruined walls of a low-slung building and disappear.

The ache of loss is almost enough to drown out the faint whispers of life brushing against his skin, and he lies there helpless, shivering and hoping that his friends don't venture into his ruins to look for him.


	2. Chapter 2

_After fifteen years, it had been weird to see Cloud again—and not just because Cloud looked younger than__ he did. Everyone else had aged, except for Vincent, but he didn't count—and yet there was Cloud, looking paler, thinner, but otherwise exactly as he had when Denzel had been seven and Cloud had picked him up off of the street. Now that Denzel himself was twenty-seven, married with one kid present and another on the way, it had been almost disappointing to see his childhood hero looking like a pale mockery of his former self. Cloud had looked haunted—not that Denzel had gotten a very good look at his face before he'd collapsed. _

Wonder where he got the coat, _Denzel thought gloomily, remembering how Cloud had tried to hide in it, hide from_ them_, his friends, his former family. It was large enough to have nearly buried Cloud, as thin as he was. When they'd dropped him off in Midgar, with a phone and some food—including a fair bit of chocolate, at Yuffie's insistence—he had looked so small, lying there on the ground. Not that Cloud had ever been a very big person; he'd always been on the short side, even with the hair, and tended toward 'slight' more than anything else. It had always given Denzel a kick to see Cloud cream Barret at arm-wrestling contests, which Barret had always insisted on whenever he showed up to visit Marlene. But now Denzel himself was taller than Cloud, and Cloud, lying unconscious on the bed in Cosmo Canyon's otherwise empty infirmary, looked so frail that Denzel believed even Tifa might be able to beat him at arm-wrestling. _

_Vincent stood on the opposite side of the bed from Denzel, his eyes flicking over Cloud's face as if searching for something. Everyone else, so far as Denzel knew, was downstairs with the two elders who had carried on Bugenhagen's work. It had been a few hours since they had informed AVALANCHE of the conflict that they sensed within Cloud, and the silence of the Planet on the matter. _

Why hasn't Aeris done something? _Denzel wondered. _

_He had never met Aeris Gainsborough, had never felt the sorrow that the others had at the anniversary of The World Didn't End Day. He felt sad that they had lost someone, of course—but it wasn't personal. Still, Denzel knew that she was the one who had brought the healing rain, even from beyond the realm of the living, and he had heard the others speak of her, of the wonders she had worked and continued to work. If there was something wrong with Cloud that was related to the Planet, why did she remain silent? _

"_He was living in Midgar," Vincent muttered to himself. _

_Denzel looked up sharply. "You knew where he was?" He had to fight to keep the question from sounding accusing. _

_A nod was his answer, and, "…I kept track. It seemed wise to know where to find him…if something came up."_

"_Why didn't you tell anyone?" _

_Vincent shook his head. "It was not my place to tell." _

"_Why was he there, do you think?" _

"_The Cosmo Canyon elders are not the only ones who see things," Vincent muttered. "Every time something around him moves, his…personal lifestream, for lack of a better term…it seems disrupted. I was not certain, but it is clearer now, and matches with what the elders have gleaned from the planet." _

"_And Midgar's dead," Denzel muttered, finishing the line of thought for him. Sudden hope made him look up. "Do you think that if we were to take him back there…?" _

_Vincent nodded. _

---

Twelve days had passed since they had started camping out by the Midgar ruins, plotting and planning and trying to come up with some way that Cloud might be able to heal himself. The church had been a popular suggestion, and although Cloud hadn't seemed too happy about it he'd agreed to look into it—and then it had gone and destroyed Cloud's left arm. Denzel felt rather sick thinking about it.

Vincent had been coming and going; everyone else had pretty much stayed clustered around their little camp. It was the same day that they got news about Cloud's arm that Denzel started thinking that Vincent had the right of it. They weren't doing any good by sitting around here.

"You look frustrated," a low voice from behind Denzel interrupted his thoughts as he gazed out at the ruins of Midgar.

He turned to see Red XIII regarding him, swishing his fiery tail back and forth slowly. "I don't think I'm being much help, sitting around here," he says ruefully. "None of us are."

"Mm. Vincent and I have come to the same conclusion. He's managed to track down some whispers of things that may be related to what Cloud is undergoing. I hear that you're a fair shot with a gun…"

"Rifle and handgun mostly, yeah," Denzel replied absently, one hand going to the leg holster where he kept one of his spare weapons. When he was younger he'd wanted to be like Cloud, and had lived in secret hope that one day his idol would teach him how to use a sword. Cloud's departure had very effectively killed that dream, but he'd later learned that it was probably just as well. His teenage years had opened his eyes to the fact that swords were heavy, archaic weapons, and no one who was not superhuman should ever consider using them against any foe that had more advanced weaponry—which was most everyone—or any half-assed monster.

He'd still been bitter about it for the longest time. But seeing Cloud collapse in agony simply because of the presence of other humans…that did a lot to moderate his anger. Even if he thought that Cloud had been a bastard for not telling anyone anything.

"Where were you planning on going?" he asked, bringing up a map in his head. By the time he was eighteen he'd been off to travel the world, making a living by switching roles between messenger, guard, and treasure-hunter, and so he had a pretty good idea what was where. He'd settled down a few years later when he met Carol, of course—too many memories of never having a proper father-figure had made him resolve to be there for his wife, and eventually his kid when one came along a year later.

_Kids, soon_, he thought with a slight smile, thinking of his newly-pregnant wife and two year old son. He'd been calling them twice a day since this reunion had extended unexpectedly. He'd wanted to bring Carol, but Cid's ship was having problems and when it turned out they couldn't fly there they'd agreed she'd stay behind. Motorcycles were fun, but it was difficult and dangerous to transport toddlers on them.

Denzel missed them badly, but he stayed the extra time anyway. _Because I do owe Cloud, even if he is an idiot. _Carol had understood; she was concerned, of course, and didn't really get why he thought that the man who had walked out on them all when he was thirteen was so important, but she understood.

Red chuckled. "Not sure yet," he admitted in a low growl. "Vincent said he'd have more details after he got back. I was thinking that you, Marlene, Cait and I could go meet him in Healin."

"Sounds good," Denzel said slowly, nodding. The others would be furious if they vanished without telling them where they were going, but Yuffie had already admitted that she really needed to be getting back to Wutai, and Tifa was too much of a wreck over Cloud—Denzel wasn't really sure why, but Sherra had muttered something about old guilt, and Marlene had tried to explain that it was 'old personal stuff'. Even if she had been on the level, Tifa _was_ over forty, and her knees were giving her problems.

"Too much jumping about in my youth," she used to say with a smile.

Barret was well over fifty, himself, and Cid was in much the same boat—and without a working airship at the moment. No, it would be better if only the youngest and the oldest went.

"Have you told Marlene yet?" he asked. Denzel was a near-perfect shot, though not quite as good as Vincent, who had taught him, but Marlene was much better at hand-to-hand combat. Tifa had taught them both, of course, but Denzel had always been distracted by the thought of weapons. _It's a guy thing, I guess,_ he thought ruefully, remembering all the times that Marlene had kicked his ass in spars.

Red grinned, a gesture that looked strangely human on him. "She was most eager to get going. Vincent phoned to say he'd probably made it to Healin by tomorrow; if we're going to be traveling by automobile, we should leave early in the morning. The roads to Healin are not as easy to travel as the motorcycle tracks, I hear."

Denzel nodded; this was true. Over the past decade motorcycles had become more and more the transportation device of choice for most people, simply because they went faster than cars—not an advantage to be discounted in a world filled with monsters and a less-than-stable government—fit more places, and were cheaper to outfit with gas-using engines. Motorcycle tracks had spread across the world as a result. They were mostly only worn dirt, but so were most full roads, these days.

Unfortunately, group transportation vehicles they were not. People with kids were finding it harder and harder to travel across a world where all the roads were falling into decay, but most families wouldn't have traveled much outside of the cities anyway; it was too dangerous. For the purpose of this trip out to Midgar, the former AVALANCHE and co had rented three jeeps—mostly out of courtesy to Red—and taken the old highway system that Shinra had been developing before Meteor.

Too, they were planning on leaving before dawn. That meant that they needed to be in a large, enclosed vehicle, or accept the consequences of foolishness. No one travelled alone or exposed at night, anymore, although Denzel knew that the area around Midgar was usually quite safe.

"I'll load my stuff tonight. Which jeep?" Denzel asked. If they were to get away bright and early…well, no doubt they'd be chased by phone calls, but it would make it easier to take off unobtrusively if he wasn't packing up everything at once.

"The blue one," Red told him, and Denzel chuckled. The blue jeep was a sweet baby blue, sleek, and about as feminine as a jeep could get—and Marlene adored it. There was no doubt about who had made _that _decision.

Sure enough, when he sneaked his duffle into the back of the jeep, he found that Marlene's pink one was nestled in beside it, and he smiled fondly. He still thought of her as a younger sister, and at least these days he got to see her more often than usual. They'd always gotten along as children—but true to the old adage, he appreciated her even more now that they had moved apart.

They rose early and set out before dawn, making sure that their camp's protections against night time creatures were still in place and would not be weakened by their absence. Marlene—who was driving—accelerated the jeep slowly to keep the noise to a minimum, but seeing as how they didn't suddenly grow a tail or get any irate calls on their cells, it seemed that no one had woken up in time to notice them gone.

"By Gaia, it feels good to be doing this again," Cait commented from his spot on Marlene's lap. "Though it seems a bit ironic that I get invited along while people twenty or thirty years younger than me are left behind."

"The wonders of technology," Marlene replied dryly. "'sides, they had their turn. But I suspect this won't be such an epic journey as the last one."

"Mm," Red agreed, his voice a low rumble compared to Marlene's. Adulthood hadn't rid her of her high soprano. "But perhaps it is for a worthier cause."

"The last journey was to save the world," Denzel said with a raised eyebrow.

"No, it ended up saving the world," said Cait thoughtfully. "But…well, it didn't really start out that way."

Marlene frowned. "AVALANCHE's objective was to save the world."

"But when they started, AVALANCHE was dead," Red said softly. "Our journey…well, we all had different reasons. To go home, to get revenge…others, of course…" Both he and Marlene shot a look at Cait, but the robot looked away, avoiding their gazes.

Denzel frowned. _What is that about?_

"Nothing so honourable as to save a friend, really," Red finished softly.

It was a sobering thought.

---

"_Cloud," Tifa asked much later that night, when the adults were all far past half-drunk—even Cloud, who_ never _drank, but had downed two dozen shots of absinthe already and so was only slightly less drunk than the rest of them—and_ Vincent_, who just stood there with a bottle of champagne in hand, sipping from it every so often—"Cloud, how'd yoooou doooo that…thing…with yer sword? Ooops!" She gestured expansively, nearly spilling her glass, and Marlene giggled. Denzel regarded giggling as girly, but even so he was tempted to imitate her; the adults were being _fun _tonight. Not that some of them weren't always fun—Yuffie sprung to mind—but it was amusing to watch them all act funny not-on-purpose. _

_Cloud's eyes crossed slightly as he contemplated the question, allowing the shot glass in his hand to waver. "Um…thing?" he asked, looking completely clueless. _

"_Yeah! Thing!" chipped in Yuffie, as enthusiastic as ever. _

"_I believe she means to ask how you managed to defeat Bahamut SIN using magic when you had no materia," Red XIII rumbled gently. Of all the 'adults', he alone wasn't drunk—supposedly because he considered imbibing a foolish human pastime, but Denzel suspected that it was mostly because he couldn't grip a bottle or a glass, and refused to_ _lap liquor from a bowl. The big animal_ did look _rather…wistful, at times._

"_I—wait, wha', you didn't know I could—could def—def—uh—beat it?" Cloud demanded, uncrossing his eyes to focus on Red accusingly._ _"You_ threw me _a' it!"_

"_Y'all jumped!" slurred Cid, pitching into the conversation, his accent made even worse than normal by the drink. "Figered ya cud, but di' kno' 'ow ya wud."_

_Cloud just stared at him, and then turned to blink at Red, awaiting a translation. _

"_We believed you knew what you were doing, and were capable of defeating the creature without magic. However, you_ did_ use magic, and know that we know your materia had been stolen and you had none left, we're all at a loss as to_ how _you did it. In truth, it made awaiting the verdict of your fight with Sephiroth somewhat…stressful," Red said obligingly. _

_Snickering, and reaching for another bottle of absinthe—he'd managed to empty the one he'd been working on up to now—Cloud asked, "Why? Seems tha' Gi—Gi—Planet likes kickin' me out toooo." Finding the bottle, he unscrewed the lid, tilted it back, and downed half the bottle in a gulp. _

_Red winced; everyone else stared at him, fascinated. Cloud coughed, and then drained the other half of the bottle, giving everyone a full-on grin. _

_Denzel couldn't do anything but stare; he'd never seen Cloud so much as actually_ _smile—a slightly upturned corner of the mouth_ _did_ not _count as a smile. To see him grin was just downright _weird.

"_Loves me," Cloud slurred, grabbed another bottle, and downed it as well. _

"_Cloud, I doubt Gaia loves you enough to save you from self-inflicted alcohol poisoning," Red said, getting to his feet with a very worried expression on his face. _

_A pensive look—if someone as drunk as Cloud could manage to look pensive—came over his face. "Nah, not 'er," he mumbled, waving the bottle as if to illustrate. Unfortunately, he didn't have a very good grip on it—it went flying away to break against the wall. _

"_Cloooud!" wailed Tifa, stumbling over to have a look at it. She turned to yell at him—and was confronted with the sight of Cloud Strife, leader of AVALANCHE and Saviour of the Planet—twice—sliding to the floor behind the counter, passing out cold. _

"_Stupid," mumbled Red. _

---

It takes a long time for him to stop shivering, though he's not cold—the mako in his blood enhances his resistance to the elements, and even if it didn't he's wearing a huge greatcoat. But some part of him is aware that this has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with his lack of two arms. Night has fallen, and begun departing, by the time he manages to get his brain to calm down enough to even think to himself.

_Stop it_, he tells himself fiercely, as the shaking begins to subside. _Stop it! Barret's been missing an arm for years and he's done fine …plenty of people…I'm sure…_

He struggles to his feet, glaring in the direction of the church, summoning anger to block out the profound sense of loss. Now he's started shaking again, but for an entirely different reason; he's trembling with rage, cold, icy rage that she would reject him because of _geostigma_, because of _Jenova_, she who had healed him—if for any other reason…that he could understand. But if there was one thing that he had resolved in his mind over the past two decades, it was that he was not to blame for having Jenova cells.

And, for the first time in his life, he realizes that this is a pain that he truly believes he _does not deserve. _

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT!" he yells at the sky, and screams with righteous anger.

Distantly, he realizes he hasn't felt this clear-headed for years. The small whispers of life from the ruins are still present, but his anger drowns them out until _awareness_ is all that is there—there are no lashes against his skin. He is free to move without fear that it will upset some tenuous balance—because there is no balance. He lives, and is aware—and that is all.

The realization is enough to shock him out of his rage, and at once all the sensations snap at him again, cutting away his ability to stand. He falls, hitting the ground heavily, unable to twist about to fall properly and avoid hurting himself—he nearly snaps his right wrist, and wouldn't that completely suck? For a long moment he struggles simply to breathe, realization and agony warring for attention in his mind.

"FUCK!"

When in agony, pointless, useless agony, anger is simple to summon. Before, there had been despair, loneliness, and hope warring for dominance in emotions, but he cast Sephiroth from his mind long ago, and now that he knows what to try…emotion is easier to banish than a malevolent mind.

_Right_, he thinks coldly, his sight tainted by a blue haze as he hauls himself to his feet again and strides over to Fenrir, _Time to go get a new arm._

He takes a moment to pick up his phone and block all callers.

The area of Midgar where they left him is in one of the lower areas of the city. From there, everything slopes upward, like a bowl; Fenrir races uphill, trying to escape it. He can see the ends of the highways that once led to the top of the plate, crumbling from off the edge of the bowl. At one time, he remembers, he'd driven off of the edge of one of those, Fenrir locked together with Kadaj's motorcycle.

Kadaj.

_Jenova. _

_Time to make a detour,_ he decides, applying the brakes and skidding the bike until it stops. His eyes search the horizon; he can't really recall where it was, exactly, that Kadaj and his brothers had died—and taken him with them. All of those memories are hazy, and not just because he died, but because he and Sephiroth had covered quite a lot of distance during that fight and he can't remember exactly where they had ended up.

_Think_, he orders himself. It had been on top of a building—the building that Sephiroth had destroyed, pulling down the top of it—_of course. Shinra's. _It had been one of Shinra's secondary towers, the only one to have survived Meteor—and now he knows exactly where he needs to go.

It's easy to locate it, once he knows where to look. The rubble that surrounds it forces him to leave Fenrir behind, though, and as he looks up toward the top of the building, he recalls jumping the distance once, and wonders how the hell he managed to do that. But he can remember doing a lot of weird things in the rush of battle. It seemed that whatever he needed, he found. Force to cut open a falling two-tonne block? The ability to jump several hundred feet into the air? Neither had been a problem, then.

_Maybe it has something to do with this anger trick._ _The sword?_

He wonders what will happen if he leaves it behind while he goes on this hunt, and fear spikes through him at the thought that his shield of rage might fail. That, of course, is enough to actually make it fail, and he collapses over Fenrir before he can summon the anger again—this time at himself for being stupid.

_Pull yourself together_, he thinks icily, and he pops open the compartments that still store his sword. As soon as he lays a gloved hand on one of the pieces, something clicks in his mind, augmenting the anger he feels, solidifying and holding it in place for him.

He blinks, and realizes that he's feeling confusion—but the protective veil of rage is still there, still functioning. _The sword._ It's as if his capacity for emotion has been expanded, somehow, so that the sheer amount of anger he needs to force away the whispers no longer demands his attention entirely. A strange sensation.

With that bolstering thought, he opens the other compartments on the motorcycle, hunting for the old sheath that he used to wear. It takes him some time to find it—it's buried beneath spare clothes and parts for Fenrir, and old packages that he ended up never delivering—but when he pulls it out, he finds that the years have not tarnished it at all. It's difficult to strap on with only one hand, and he has to adjust it awkwardly to account for his lack of a left arm, but he manages, and starts pulling the other pieces of his sword from their compartments.

If he thought that the sheath was difficult to manage one-handed, it's near-impossible to assemble his sword. For a while he can only stare at it in frustration, tempered by the cold anger buzzing at the front of his mind, before finally he puts the pieces on the ground and uses his feet to hold each in place while he connects another to it. For a moment he's glad that there's no one around anymore.

When he finally has it assembled into one piece, he slings it over his shoulder and into the sheath. This, at least, he can do one-handed; muscle memory of exactly how to do it has not failed him.

The scramble over the rubble is difficult; while he appreciated that the loss of his arm would make it more difficult to balance while fighting, he hadn't anticipated how much it would affect other endeavours. Several times he almost slips and falls, and now he's exceedingly grateful for the shield that his sword provides; he's too busy concentrating on his feet to be fully focusing on staying angry. More than once, he wishes he could still use materia and pull out a summon to fly him to the top, but he left all of his materia behind long ago.

Eventually he makes it, panting from the effort and strain. He collapses against a boulder, breathing hard and feeling completely exhausted—but in a good way.

_I've been wasting away for the last fifteen years_, he thinks grimly, feeling an additional spike of anger at himself and the situation at large.

After a time he shakes himself and walks into the ruined building. It doesn't really seem like the safest thing to do, but he currently gives fuck all about his own safety, and in any case the building has been like this for eighteen years. If it hasn't collapsed fully yet, it's unlikely to do so now.

The elevators aren't working, of course—even if they had power, he's betting the top of the shaft was ripped off when Sephiroth destroyed the roof. Instead, he's forced to climb the stairs, and adopt a much more appreciative view of the people who had lived in high-rise apartments on the top plate. There's a _lot_ of stairs, and he's forced to take several breaks along the way, cursing himself for his weakness. He thinks that maybe he should start eating the food that his friends left him; he hadn't bothered, up until now, but at the moment he could really use the extra energy.

The stairs are situated near the outer wall, and so he can judge how far he's climbed by glancing out of the broken windows—or through the occasional break in the wall itself. He estimates that he's only a few stories from the top when he reaches a landing that is nearly entirely covered in rubble, and he has to force himself not to groan at this new obstacle.

_Think_, he demands his brain fiercely. There had to be another stairwell somewhere, right? He turns his eyes back to the rubble. _Maybe I could just climb over it…or…_

Drawing his sword, he tries to remember how he used to use it to throw force; there's a vague recollection of battle-rage and _need_ swimming in the back of his mind. As far as he can recall, he'd never actually _tried_ to do something with the sword—he'd just willed it.

The sword had always been weird to use, had always seemed to defy the laws of conventional magic. But it had magnified his strength in ways that materia never had; with this, he hadn't needed a spell or a summon to split rocks—only the _want_ to do so.

Before his brain can catch up and inform him of the possible consequences, he whips the sword in front of him.

Nothing happens.

"Damn it," he mutters. He found the sword in the church; maybe now that the church is denied to him, so too are its powers?

_It's still helping, though_, he notes clinically. Way up here, the whispers of life are even fewer, but he can still feel the sword's protective barrier fending off their lashing touch.

Instead of dwelling he resigns himself to the search for another stairwell, and ventures to open the door that connects this one to the main floor. The inside of the building brings back flashes of memory—a chase, a running fight, the light of the clashes between swords illuminating the darkness—that was sheer energy, magical power, dripping off of his sword and Sephiroth's as they fought. He stares at the sword in his hand, and turns to whip it at the pile of rubble again.

The results are no different from before. He sheathes the sword with a sigh, and then steps through the open doorway.

_Better hope there's another way up_, he thinks gloomily.

It's dangerous going. There's a lot of glass and twisted metal lying about, and though the floor is mostly intact, every so often he stumbles across a support beam that definitely isn't supporting anything. He sticks near the edges; the first stairwell was by a wall, so it makes a sort of sense that if there's a second set of stairs, it would be located on one of the sides of the building too. Sure enough, there's another stairwell located kitty-corner to the first—and this one, while also covered in rubble, isn't entirely blocked.

He manages to climb through to the roof, nearly killing himself a few times when he disturbs the rubble enough for some of it to slide toward the broken windows, and emerges into the sunlight once more. For a moment he just stands there, face lifted toward the sky, eyes closed, allowing his skin to soak up the warmth that is so rare down in the depths of the bowl—

_Noise, and pain._

Shuddering, he clutches at his chest, hunching over in phantom pain.

"Just a memory," he whispers frantically. "Just a memory."

_I _died_ here._

It's somewhat ironic that he defeated Sephiroth and Kadaj only to be slain by the far weaker, dying remnants. It's strange, too; at the time it had not seemed an overly traumatic experience. It had taken years for the fact _I died_ to sink in.

_I died, and was rejected,_ he thinks bitterly.

He can see it, now—the exact place that he was standing when he was shot. As he walks toward it, he notices that there are holes in the roof that match up to where the five secondary pieces of his sword had fallen, embedding themselves into the concrete. And there—yes, that is what he came here to find, although he only realizes it when he lays eyes upon it. Kadaj's double-bladed katana, lying discarded where the remnant had dropped it in his failed charge.

When he'd batted Kadaj to the edge of the roof, it had fallen away—but when Sephiroth had dissolved, the Masamune had dissolved as well, leaving the katana lying in its place.

_Does that mean there's two of it now?_ he wonders, but he can't help but feel that this is incorrect. The katana, he thinks, is to the Masamune as Kadaj was to Sephiroth—and he can use that, if Vincent and the Cosmo Canyon elders are correct. It feels correct.

He walks over and picks it up, turning it over in his hand, noting his twinned reflection in the double blades. It feels cold, echoes of distance and despair, and he thinks it compliments his sword's shield of icy rage very nicely.

"Very nicely," he murmurs, and starts the long climb back down.


	3. Chapter 3

"That was a fuckin' nasty trick to pull, ya assholes," Cid grumbled, his voice made tinny and artificial by the phone. The sun had risen half an hour ago, and with it, it would appear, their abandoned companions.

"Had to be done," chimed Marlene unrepentantly. It's Denzel's cell phone that was called, but he'd put it on speakerphone so that everyone could jump into the conversation.

"They are right," Red intoned, his head sticking out between the front two seats; as large as he was, he took up most of the back—if for no other reason than he had to have enough room so that his tail didn't set something on fire. "It's regrettable, Cid, but without your ship—"

"Fuck that," the sound of Cid snarling echoed out from the phone. "Ya don't go takin' off like that."

The four in the jeep grew quiet, sharing glances with one another.

"Okay, it was unfair to the rest of you," Denzel admitted. "We're sorry."

"Better be," Cid muttered after a pause. "You ain't the only ones gone missing."

They all froze for a moment—except Marlene, who was still driving.

"What do you mean?" Cait asked cautiously.

"Cloud's outta contact," Cid reported. "Yuf's been trying to raise him since dawn. No answer."

"Could he still be asleep?" the robot asked cautiously.

"Nah," the phone disagreed immediately. "Phone'd wake him up unless he turned it off or ran away. He's got that fuckin' SOLDIER hearin', remember?"

"And Gaia knows what else now," Marlene said softly, her earlier flippant attitude gone.

"Yeah, that too," Cid admitted.

"Classic Cloud-speak," muttered Marlene. "'I'm not answering the phone', code for 'I'm not here'."

"That's what Teef's thinkin'," Cid said. Denzel winced, thinking worriedly of his adopted mother.

"How much longer to Healin?" Marlene murmured softly to Denzel, quietly enough so that it couldn't be picked up over the phone. Guilty feelings or no, it still didn't seem smart to so easily give away their destination to their aging friends.

He checked his watch. Judging from how long they'd been travelling, at their current speed…"About another half-hour," he replied just as quietly, seeing her line of thought.

"Cid, if anyone would be able to find Cloud, it's Vincent," he said more loudly to the phone. "He found him once before, after all—"

"He fuckin' _what_?" Cid roared.

Denzel winced as the other three in the jeep turned to look accusingly at him as well. "Hey, I didn't know until after this whole thing started," he said defensively. "But apparently he's been keeping an eye on Cloud's location this whole time—didn't feel that it was his secret to tell, though, or something. If he found Cloud out in the middle of nowhere, he can probably figure out where Cloud is now."

"_Bastard_," swore Cid, and Marlene looked fit to emulate him.

"Maybe," Denzel agreed reluctantly, remembering his own thoughts when Vincent had oh-so-casually let him in on that secret. "It's still an advantage."

"Right," drawled Cid. "Red, you better tan his pale hide for me and the gang when y'all catch up to 'im."

"Will do," the furred beast promised, and Denzel hung up.

---

Riding a motorcycle for hours on end while wearing a big huge sword, he discovers, is _hard_—he's starting to recall the reason he had the special compartments fitted into Fenrir in the first place. But it's either wear the sword or face the world protected only by what emotion he can summon by himself, and he knows that as soon as he gets out of the bowl the latter won't really be an option. The two times he's dropped his mental shield so far, every nerve ending on his skin ignited as if the pressure had built up over time, waiting for him to be unprotected. He doesn't want to think about what that would feel like if he suddenly lost the shield outside of Midgar.

There are many routes leading out of the bowl, and he finds he can remember most of them. The main one is where his friends are camping, so he takes advantage of this unexpected burst of memory to take a back route out, one that will lead him the long way round to Edge. He knows that he's going to stop in the city there—even if he has no need to eat, he's going to have to refuel the bike, and there might be a doctor in Edge who could do something about his arm, too.

Fenrir is roaring along the winding trail, only ten minutes past the lip of the Midgar bowl, when his senses pick up something in the distance, something that isn't grass or dumb beast. Something human—and something in pain.

He frowns. The feel of life is not ripping at him as it used to—it is more lapping at him, now, all of its force stolen by the barrier of cold rage that hums in the back of his mind. But all the detail and sensation remains, nipping at his awareness.

It's dead ahead of him now, and he can pick out even more details as he speeds up, leaning forward on the bike. The sensation of something living—something far too big, something unnatural—washes over him as well, giving him a picture far clearer than anything his eyes could ever hope to provide. Not that he really needs a picture that clear; the scenario is simple.

_Two travellers on a motorcycle,_ life tells him. _One, male, dying. Another, female, terrified—too terrified to run. Attacked by some sort of snake creature. _

Some part of his mind that isn't taken up by cold analysis or icy rage notes that going this fast on a motorcycle is really, really fun.

He rounds a corner and the scene comes into view. It doesn't really matter at this point—he's already moving, climbing to stand on Fenrir's seat as he gets a good look at the creature that he feels the need to kill.

It's not something that he can recall ever seeing before, and he thinks he would remember encountering something like _this_. For one thing, it's hideously ugly. It's got several heads, like a mythic hydra, but they're all bulbous and dripping some sort of white goo. Green sores cover its twisted, writhing body, oozing more goo, as it hisses at a terrified woman cowering behind an overturned bike.

A wordless shout echoes from somewhere within him, and at the last moment he steps backward, pushing Fenrir onto its back wheel, before he launches himself at the creature, one hand reaching to draw his sword. The motorcycle hits the creature's body before he reaches its heads, and the thing's long necks whiplash forward as Fenrir slams into it and continues on, falling sideways and skidding to a stop some distance away. He manages to hack off one of the heads as he flies over it, and then he's more concerned about his landing.

It's not a very comfortable one—he manages to make it into a roll, his body recalling how to do this even if his mind has forgotten, but without all his limbs in place his body is confused and his balance is completely out of whack. He can feel something in his wrist crunch as the impact is absorbed mostly into his right arm, and when he tries moving the sword again, it hurts like hell.

The snake-thing turns toward him, hissing, and he's got no time left to ponder what he might have done to his wrist—instead he finds himself forced to dive to the right, then backwards, as the remaining six heads come at him, with hissing screeches. He hopes that they're supposed to signify pain.

Duck, roll awkwardly, jump—he's a bit surprised that he manages to jump so high, but he's completely cleared the heads of the creature. It feels unreal.

_Battle-trance, or battle-rage, or something,_ he thinks bemusedly, and flips, sending a line of blue fire racing from the edge of his sword.

It obliterates the snake-creature, turning it to ash. He blinks in surprise, even as he falls awkwardly, stumbling, sending his wrist into fiery agony. Biting his tongue to keep from screaming, he sheathes the sword and clutches his wrist to his chest, closing his eyes. Something feels broken, there.

_Damn it._

The adrenaline rush is gone, and in its place arrives a wave of exhaustion. He drops to his knees and gives some serious thought to passing out; his head is feeling like someone's been using it for a cymbal. _When was the last time I did something like that? _Dimly, he can recall taking out Bahamut without feeling so completely worn-out.

_I used the sword,_ he thinks giddily. _I didn't even think about it._

_Maybe that's the key to it…did I have to think about it, before?_

He curses his hazy memories.

"No! Darren!"

The sudden cry makes him glance up, recalling the people he's rescued. The woman has apparently managed to snap out of the fear that paralyzed her before, and is now running to the fallen form of the man, falling to her knees beside him, sobbing. The man's near dead, he notes clinically, feeling his life bleed out onto the dust of the road.

_I could save him._

Gingerly, he stands, shuffling over to Fenrir and popping the compartments along the sides, staring at the small collection of vials that he's got left to him. It's not much. He hasn't used any for the past fifteen years, but now that he's out of Midgar and travelling again, it's going to be difficult to make it last if he keeps having encounters like this one.

He looks back to the sobbing woman and lets his shoulders slump further. The headache is eating away at him.

_If I need a phoenix down, I probably won't be able to administer it to myself anyway_, he thinks, detached, and pulls out two vials. The first he opens, with difficulty, and downs; a moment later the pain in his wrist fades, along with the ache behind his eyes. He still feels like crap, but he's better than death-warmed over. More briskly, now, he walks back to the fallen pair.

The woman tenses as his shadow falls over her, moving to cover 'Darren' protectively. He's not sure what to say to that action, so he doesn't say anything. Instead he just pops out the lid on the second potion bottle and kneels down, pushing up the visor of the man's helmet and tilting his head back. It flops about too easily, even accounting for the round helmet making it easier to roll—he can sense something broken, there. Probably the spine. If the guy had fallen off of the motorcycle or been tossed by the snake-thing, that would make sense.

"Wha—what are you doing?" the woman demands, trying weakly to stop him from pouring the potion down the man's throat. He bats away her arm and forces the liquid past Darren's lips, watching carefully until he notes that the man has swallowed reflexively. He's never seen anyone drown on a phoenix down—wouldn't that be ironic—but, still…

The effects are instantaneous. He can feel the man's injuries knitting together inside, stopping the internal bleeding that was going to crush his heart, as the blood is forced back into its proper flow. Bones in the broken neck knit with a loud popping sound. The man's eyes flutter, and open.

"_Darren!_" the woman gasps. She looks up through the visor of her helmet, awe beginning to replace fear. "You—you saved him—"

"Kiza?" Darren mumbles dazedly, his voice rough. There's blood flecking his lips, but it's dried now.

"I'm here," she chokes, grabbing the man's hand and giving it a tight squeeze.

"Wha—what happened?"

"We were saved," she says, looking back up again. "I—I don't even know your name, and I can't thank you enough…"

"Cloud," he supplies, the word feeling thick and awkward on his tongue. Both of them look at him curiously, Darren beginning to sit up.

"I'm sorry?" Darren says cautiously.

"My name," he clarifies in a mumble, looking away and shoving his hand into the side pocket of his greatcoat. He really just wants to leave—well, no, what he really wants to do is curl up in a ball and let unconsciousness take him, but that seems like a really bad idea after running across the snake-thing. Yet the thought of just walking away feels even more awkward than hanging around.

"Kiza and Darren Noake," Kiza introduces herself, sincerity and gratitude filling her voice. Evidently they're a couple. The way she helps him sit up, and how he leans against her, doesn't make it look like they're siblings; plus, their love thrums in their lifestreams, washes against his skin. It's not the love that sibling's share. "If there's any way we can repay you, any at all—"

"Mm," he says, about to wave her off and go back to Fenrir, when a sudden thought occurs to him. "D'you have a map?" he asks instead.

She looks a bit warier at this request, and some part of him notes that he _is_ speaking very…coldly. It's difficult not to, with so much icy rage hanging in front of his mind, whatever its main source might be. His headache is starting to return.

"I'm not familiar with this area," he adds, trying to make his voice a bit more neutral. It's a lie, but not much of one—he has no idea how the world has changed in the past fifteen years, and he can recall having to make a sudden detour on the way to that reunion, when he'd accidentally run across a town that certainly hadn't been there before. Edge had seemed larger at the time, too; it had been hell finding the least populated route to the Seventh Heaven bar. "If I could glance at a map…"

"Hell, man," Darren chuckles nervously—though the man's emotions are more due to his near-death experience than anything he's said, he senses—"You can have the map to keep. Least I owe you."

"We owe you," Kiza says firmly.

He waits as they struggle to their feet and Darren draws his wife into a heartfelt embrace. After a few moments, he has to look away; it's almost painful to see two people so in love.

_I nearly let him die,_ he thinks, unsure how he feels about that.

Cold, mostly.

A long minute passes of him not watching them—he doesn't need to, not when he can sense their every breath and emotion—before they walk back over to him, a folded map in Kiza's hand.

He takes it when she offers it, uncertainly, and it's an effort for him to look her in the eye, but he manages it. He can't tell anything about her from that look, though—everything he senses comes from what he can feel.

She's a good person. Afraid, prone to terror, and perhaps a little useless at anything practical, but a good person. Completely in love, completely devoted to her husband.

"Will you be okay?" he asks, haltingly, reluctantly. He doesn't really think they will be, but he has no wish to volunteer to baby-sit them, either. A vague sense of urgency presses at him—and aside from that, he also just feels uncomfortable around these people. He's forgotten how to act in human company…not that he was ever very comfortable being around anyone but his closest friends, anyway. What he can recall of his childhood tells him that he never had many friends. Any friends. His current friends—he has to believe that they are still his friends; they camped out near Midgar to keep an eye on him, abandoning whatever it is they do these days to try and help him—are a collection of weirdoes, at best. They don't count as normal people.

"We'll—well," they share a glance, and he feels his heart sinking.

"Um—where were you going?" Kiza asks nervously.

"Edge," he replies, hunching his shoulder slightly as their faces brighten. Maybe if they just tag along, and he doesn't have to detour for anything, it won't be so bad. His headache begs to differ.

"We were going there as well—just returning from the honeymoon, you know," Darren explains with a nervous laugh. "Man, we're lucky you were here to chase off that—uh—whatever that was," he finishes lamely.

Kiza glances at her husband nervously, and somewhere in the back of his mind he's wincing at what he thinks she's about to tell the man. "Uh, I think he killed it," she says, looking around, her voice a bit too high-pitched to be natural. But stress and shock is to be expected after such an event.

"What? But, there's no body—"

He finds himself the object of their curious regard, and shrugs uncomfortably, shaking out the map with one hand so that he can look at it. It's an awkward, frustrating task, like everything else since he lost his arm—and that was only _yesterday evening_, some dazed part of him notes—and he's forced to crouch so that he can spread it out fully.

"Uh—Cloud—is there something wrong with your left arm?" Kiza ventures to ask.

Of course. She can't tell, not with the huge greatcoat to still give him the semblance of two arms.

"Don't have one," he mutters, a bit surprised at the pain that arcs through him at that simple admittance. It doesn't seem to faze either one of the pair a bit that their rescuer only has one arm; the only change that he notices in them is that they radiate more awe than they did before.

_At least Darren isn't having machismo issues,_ he thinks gloomily. The situation _could_ be worse.

"Oh," stammers the man in question. "Oh, wow, man, sorry—"

The map shows that this road connects to Edge like he remembers—long, winding, and irritating to follow in some places, but there are no detours that weren't there before. He manages to fold it up awkwardly, grateful that neither of the couple has the presence of mind to offer to assist him in this, and stuffs it into one of the inner pockets in his coat where he can reach it easily. Then he stands, nods at them, and heads over to Fenrir.

They're swept up in his wake, hurrying to their own bike and gunning the engine, still dazed. Dimly, he can recall that Tifa used to ride double with him, like they're doing, although their bike is of a far different style than Fenrir. It's cruel and somewhat stupid for him to make them drive a motorcycle when they're both still in shock, but he rationalizes it in his head: it's not like he's making them tag along with him.

He guns Fenrir's engine, and roars away before that thought can go any further.

---

The road up to Healin was long and more than a little winding, and so Marlene was forced to slow the jeep down somewhat. The area looked unchanged from the last time that Denzel was here—more than five years ago, now—and it made him a bit nostalgic for his days of wandering around, nothing to tie him down, no responsibilities other than delivering the occasional package. _Of course,_ he reminds himself ruefully, _it was also damn lonely._ Carol had fulfilled his life like his wanderlust never could.

They parked alongside the driveway—Healin wasn't really made for jeeps, but rather for single travellers on smaller vehicles—and headed up to the place on foot. Vincent was waiting for them in the shadows of the door, and Denzel couldn't help but notice how no one was coming within fifteen feet of the man, even though the place was fairly crowded. There were with people in travelling garb everywhere; after the death of Geostigma, Healin had evolved from a temporary medical hospice to a traveller's respite. But as soon as the four gotten out of the jeep, they also got a little bubble of free space.

_Probably to do with all the weapons we're carrying,_ Denzel thought, slinging a belt of ammunition over his left shoulder before shrugging his rapid-fire-modified rifle over the other adjusting the strap. He checked his backup weapons as well, and then turned to see what the others were doing.

Marlene didn't stop to strap on weapons—hers were small enough that she could keep them in her pockets, although the metal knuckles did make her hips bulge oddly. Instead, she marched straight up to Vincent and demanded, "Where the hell is Cloud?"

Vincent blinked, and arched an eyebrow at her.

"You heard me," she said, her soprano voice rough with emotion. "Where the hell is Cloud?"

"If he's left Midgar, I'm not aware," Vincent said slowly, as the others approached a bit more carefully. Denzel had no end of respect for the man—after all, he'd been his teacher for a number of years, and during that time had saved his live on more than one occasion—but Vincent could be…_twitchy._ Marlene could get away with marching up to him—Vincent had always had a strangely visible soft spot for her—but Denzel had noticed that even the other AVALANCHE members approached the red-eyed man with care.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Marlene growled, glaring at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Denzel noticed Cait and Red matching the look.

Vincent cast an eye his way, and Denzel shrugged apologetically.

"It wasn't my place to tell," the ex-Turk said calmly. "Cloud has always been one to run away from people, himself included, when facing a personal difficulty. If anyone had gone to him, I doubt he would have done anything other than simply run to somewhere else. If you had known, several of you—" he looked pensive, "—_would_ have gone to him. It would have accomplished nothing."

"He dug you out of a coffin," said Marlene accusingly, and Denzel blinked. _That_ was new info. Woah. Maybe his childhood belief that Vincent was a vampire wasn't so far-fetched after all.

To Denzel's surprise, however, the comment didn't seem to faze Vincent. "Had he done it fifteen years before," was the swift, cold retort, "I would have killed him or been killed. There is such a thing as _timing_, Marlene."

Her mouth twisted in a grimace, but she tilted her head in acknowledgement of the point, and Red let out a low rumble of displeased agreement. Cait didn't say anything at all.

"Past history aside," Denzel said firmly, "Vincent, can you find him again? Maybe you're right, and he's just run off because someone found him—but it feels different, and not just because of what happened to his arm."

Vincent shook his head. "Cloud came to us already—or tried to. I do not doubt that it's more than just him running away again. I'll see what my sources come up with."

"Good. In the meantime—the entire reason for us coming here was to figure out something that could help Cloud. Maybe we should focus on that?" Denzel continued with a pointed look at the other three. "Whether or not Cloud's done a runner, he can take care of himself—at least in the short-term. It's the long-term in which I worry about him."

_Fifteen years…his own fault for being so damn anti-social, maybe, but still…well, I've already decided that I owe it to him to try something._ He could still remember the menacing figure looming out of the rain, huge sword swinging in a wide arc—and over his head, to chop into the monster that had been about to take a bite at the eight-year-old, newly-orphaned Denzel.

He realized that Vincent, Cait, and Red were all looking at him appraisingly. "What?"

Red chuckled. "It seems that you did learn _something_ from him in the years he was about, even if you avoided picking up his bad habits. Cloud _was_ a good leader."

"When he wasn't insane," Cait chimed in cynically. "Kinda weird juxtaposition, really."

"Mm. In _any_ case," Denzel cut in hurriedly, feeling a bit embarrassed, "Vincent—well, we're all here because you said you had information."

"So I did," Vincent agreed in a low voice, shooting a suddenly wary glance at the various travellers circling around to avoid their little group. "But we should go inside to discuss it. I've rented out a set of rooms we can use."

---

It is perhaps a bit cruel to be testing out how fast Fenrir can go, but he really can't help himself. He needs _something_ to distract him from the vague worry that is plaguing his mind, not to mention the lingering sense of the couple that is following him—it may no longer be an agonizing sensation, but it's irritatingly distracting. And zipping around turns at over two hundred miles an hour really is _fun_, especially with his eyes closed, relying only on the feel of where there isn't grass. Life pulses at him, whirring by him, and the sensation reminds him of that time that he'd gotten wasted on three bottles of Tifa's absinthe—right after he got kicked out of the lifestream for a _fourth_ time.

It's been such a long time since he felt anything close to fun.

He can feel Darren straining to drive fast enough keep up while not crashing. Fortunately, fear at running into another monster seems to be heightening the man's reflexes. If he could be bothered to, he would tell them both to stop worrying—there's nothing like the snake-creature around that he can sense, and their emotions are distracting—but he doubts it would do any good.

The result is that they make it to Edge in short order. He slows as he reaches the outskirts of the city; riding like a maniac on an open, deserted road is one thing, but he can feel people all around here—and he's not chasing anyone at the moment, so he might as well be careful. He doesn't feel cold enough to contemplate harming innocents, even if he seems to be feeling cold enough to contemplate letting them die.

He lets the sensation of _people_ wash over him, and basks in how much it doesn't hurt; it might be his imagination, but it seems that his headache lessens as well. Beside him, Darren pulls his own bike to a stop.

"Well, I guess we'll be seeing you, maybe," Darren says awkwardly. "Uh…yeah. If you ever need something—well, I owe you my life, man. We live on the southern edge of the city…my folks own a hotel, y'know, so if you ever need a place to crash for free—just ask anyone around there, they'll tell you where to find us. Don't be afraid to drop by, 'kay?"

"Mm," he replies, feeling distant and removed from the conversation. He doesn't pay attention to the pair of them as they exchange glances and take off; their presence is not so demanding of his attention, now. There are too many people in this city for any two individuals to be considered loud.

Edge is a huge city; it has been since Midgar's fall. Meteor was not kind to either Edge or Midgar, but Midgar took the brunt of it—the raw energy channelled through that place was too much for living things to handle, and the city hadn't exactly been friendly to life before Meteor, either. Although some stayed on the edges of Midgar, most of the survivors had moved out to Edge, inflating the former outcast's city until it had become a metropolis. Shops, businesses, buildings and roads had sprung up in the few years since, and even by the time he'd left, three years after Sephiroth's second return, it had been huge. Judging from what he'd seen on the map, it had only grown in the time since. Big cities had a way of only getting bigger—it was how the Midgar slums had become such a mess.

_Fuel, a worldwide map…_ he thinks, _and a doctor. _It's unlikely that a doctor will be able to get him a prosthetic arm in any short amount of time and he doesn't really want to hang around, but he needs to ask anyway. Who knows how technology has progressed over the past fifteen years?

Certainly, _some _change seems to have occurred, if the strange looks he's getting from passer-by are any indication. He almost thinks it's a bit funny that they're looking weird at _him_ when their clothes are so strange, and has to forcibly remind himself that even though this is Edge, and not a foreign country, he's been out of touch with life for fifteen years. Their clothes are not strange—his are. _Ah, well, not like I'm not used to getting stares._ He guns Fenrir's engine and takes off down the street—albeit at a much lower speed than two hundred miles per hour.

He hasn't gone more than a few blocks, however, before a sudden wave of sensation hits him from the left, so distracting that he nearly loses control of the bike. It takes him a minute to sort out that it's not some scream of life: it's a _smell_.

It's _food_.

It feels like the hunger of so many years has caught up to him all at once, and his stomach growls unexpectedly. He blinks in surprise; he's been near food recently—the supplies that his friends left him—without reacting like this. But that had been dried food, not opened, not cooked, he realizes, whereas the small kiosk that he's staring at now is serving wraps stuffed with stir-fry…and the lady running it is cooking the stir-fry even as she serves her customers. The aroma makes his mouth water.

He slowly drives to the edge of the street and parks Fenrir, dismounting and starting to head toward the kiosk—when the nagging feeling of forgetting something starts itching at him. Frowning, he ponders it for a moment, trying to concentrate past the other, more overwhelming thoughts in his head—

_Right. Gil._

That's easy enough to solve; he used to keep a bag of it in Fenrir's smaller front compartment, and he's had no reason to use any of it for the past fifteen years. The bag retrieved, he turns toward the kiosk again, relieved to note that there's no line.

The woman looks up as he approaches, a smile on her face—the swirls in her lifestream tell him that this is her standard greeting to ever customer, although she's generally a happy person anyway. It reminds him slightly of _her_, and he has to push that thought away quickly. The smile fades when she takes in his appearance; apparently people who carry massive swords are intimidating.

"Er, hello, sir," she says, more than a little uncertainty making it into her voice. "Can I interest you in anything?"

"Three—um," he replies, nodding his head at some of the wraps that are lying under a heating light, already prepared to go. He doesn't know what they're called.

She blinks—well, he supposes that each wrap _is_ fairly large, but he's hungrier than he's been in years—and nods, picking up a large paper bag and placing each inside. "Er, certainly. That'll be—uh, thirty gil, please."

He has to put down the bag on her counter so he can fumble it open and hand her the required amount, but it doesn't bother him—the only thing he cares about right now is sinking his teeth into the wonderful smelling _food_ that he just bought. His actions do seem to disconcert the woman, though, and she asks, "Er—sir? Is there something wrong with your arm? There's a lot of doctors in Edge, you know, real good ones."

Pausing in his attempt to close the bag again, he ponders this. "Any who do prosthetics?" he asks finally.

That gets him a look of dismay, and a hurried babble, "Oh, I'm sorry, that was terribly insensitive of me, it's just, you look like you've been traveling, and monsters are so _common_ these days—but, er, we do have some of the best doctors for that, yes. Um…look, there's a payphone over there, and it should have a phonebook. Just look under 'doctor', I think, and you should find _someone_…"

He nods, dropping the bag of gil into a pocket and picking up the paper bag. It's sheer torture to walk back to the bike, and have to fumble to get a wrap out, but then, when he finally bites into it…

Sheer fulfillment.

_Why did I stop bothering to eat?_ he wonders as he chews and swallows raw bliss. It takes him less than a minute to devour all three of the wraps, but after he's done he feels more awake and alive than he has for a long time. His head has cleared, and it's only now that he realizes it was fuzzy—well, it still is, thanks to the shield, but even that feels easier to maintain. The headache is completely gone.

_Right. Fuel, world-wide map, doctor…and _food.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm afraid I'm not surprised to hear that Cloud has gone missing," Vincent commented quietly as they climbed the stairs leading to the door of one of the Healin buildings. "I would like to say that it's a surprise, but…"

"What do you mean?" Denzel replied, pausing mid-step.

The ex-Turk didn't stop. "Inside." He pulled up the metal handle and pushed in the door; it wasn't locked.

Beyond, in the dim interior of the room, were a man and a woman, each occupying one of several wicker chairs that had been arranged haphazardly about a small glass table. The furniture looked at odds with the blank, almost oppressive walls of the meeting room, and Denzel was hard put not to shudder.

Red growled. Cait muttered in a low voice, "Ah. You."

The two occupants were wearing identical, dark-blue suits, clean-cut, although the man's jacket was open at the front and the top buttons on his shirt were undone messily. Both of them had grey hair, but their faces were as hard as iron and Denzel didn't doubt that they were competent and formidable fighters. He also couldn't help but notice that the man's hair—which was shot through with streaks of red—was nearly as spiky as Cloud's. He seemed vaguely familiar, for some reason, but the woman didn't raise any sense of familiarity at all.

The man noticed Denzel's gaze, however, and quipped, "I'd run at you with my nightstick, too, but that'd be a bit unfair—what with you having no sword and all. Unless you use that rifle in melee?"

_Huh?_ Denzel blinked in confusion, and then noticed that everyone else looked confused, too—even the unknown woman, who arched an eyebrow in unspoken question.

That got her a look and a shrug. "The president wanted to get a look at spikey's abilities."

Comprehension flooded the woman's expression. "Didn't he just lock you outside when you tried to charge him?"

"You tried to attack him? He told me you'd asked him to do you a favour," Vincent suddenly put in, and Denzel frowned. Did everyone understand what was going on but him?

He glanced at the faces of his other companions. Okay, maybe not.

The suited man chuckled. "Hey, Elena, we're confusing the kids and the grandpas," he said, grinning, and gave a weird sort of seated bow. "Come in, come in," he gestured genially. "Not going to bite. Not even going to try and hit you with my nightstick—already told you that—well, not that I'd tell you if I actually _was_ going to try and hit you with it."

"Reno and Elena of the Turks," Cait Sith said with a sigh, padding over to hop up onto one of the wicker chairs. "I really should've known—though, Vincent, I thought you kept better company than this." The toy cat frowned disapprovingly, and Vincent made a small motion that might have been a shrug.

"Hey, hey," Reno protested, while Denzel struggled to place the names. He knew who the Turks were, of course—Tifa might not like to talk about the Quest, much, but he hadgarnered _some_ information about it over the years, and the Turk organization was studied in schools these days, anyway—but he couldn't recall the exact names, except…maybe flashes of faces, red hair and some bald guy…

"Where are Rude and Tseng?" growled Red. "Or do you shuffle about now?"

The Turks' expressions closed off as if they'd had mental doors slammed in their faces.

"Rude's missing," Elena said stiffly. "Tseng died five years ago."

"The information that the Shinra Corporation has been able to dig up points to a larger puzzle that I've been pursuing for some time," Vincent murmured quickly, beckoning the group inside and shutting the door with a heavy _thud_. "I don't believe it's any coincidence that Cloud's gone missing now."

"He's missing?" Elena asked sharply, sharing a worried look with Reno. "I thought he was pinned down in Midgar."

"He left to go to Edge once, already," Vincent said logically. "It is hardly beneficial to his health to do so, but he's never been one to look after himself. There's also the possibility he may have discovered some way to lessen the damage that he is subjected to…"

"Vincent," Red rumbled, "You told them about Cloud?"

Reno snorted. "Of course he told us about Cloud. If you haven't noticed, Cloud's a kinda important guy. Right now, could be _real_ important."

Marlene threw up her hands in exasperation. "Will you stop dancing about being cryptic and start talking strait? Why're you here, why're you involved, and what's going on with Cloud?"

Vincent, Elena, and Reno shared a _look_. _Maybe it's a Turk thing,_ Denzel thought.

"The Shinra Corporation, as part of its efforts to atone for past deeds," began Elena suddenly, "takes it upon itself to investigate…suspicious circumstances. In particular we focus upon events that seem related to things that we may have wrought—it would not do to be slaying the demons of others while allowing our own to run free. Of late, we have seen a disturbing pattern of events…organized chaos. I'm sure you've all noticed how it has affected travel over the past few years, but more recently it's grown more concentrated in urban areas as well…weakening the government, instilling fear into the populace…" she directed these last comments at Cait, and the robot's eyes widened.

"I've seen it too," it muttered.

Vincent nodded. "My own eyes and ears keep track of such things as well. In particular, recent activity at the Northern Crater has had me concerned. I don't have the manpower to have it investigated, however, so I called it to the attention of the Turks. They went to investigate…and, well…"

"Got caught," said Reno, looking subdued. "Rude got taken—I didn't have a chance. Whoever is up there, they've put up a barrier like that one that Sephiroth did. Then, that the exact same day, Spikey Strife leaves Midgar for the first time in fifteen years. Twelve days later he vanishes. Given what Vincent's said Cloud's going through, it's a bit much of a coincidence."

"You think that someone's running around trying to do—something—that has to do with Jenova?" Denzel asked, wishing that this had also been covered in school. Jenova had been a taboo topic, growing up; he'd only known what it was because Tifa had lectured Marlene quite firmly to never, ever bring it up again after she'd mentioned it at dinner. Denzel had been included in that lecture, even though he'd felt it wasn't necessary; seeing the way Cloud and Tifa both froze at mention of the word was more than enough.

"It seems most likely," Vincent confirmed. "I fear they may also be doing something to the planet itself—for the church to react to Cloud in such a fashion…"

Everyone else except the Turks winced.

"Church?" Reno leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

"Cloud tried to open the door to Aeris' church yesterday," Denzel said quietly. "It destroyed his left arm…dissolved it, burned it away, we're not sure."

Reno whistled, and for a moment he looked genuinely concerned. "Shit. You sure that he's _gone_, and not just _dead_?"

"He is Cloud," Red rumbled softly.

"He could be difficult to locate," Elena murmured. "If he has no reason to venture near human populations…"

"That would limit him to traveling on foot," Vincent disagreed, shaking his head. "It's more likely he would take Fenrir, in which case he'll need fuel—I'll call the others later and ask them to confirm whether or not Fenrir's gone as well. But locating Cloud is not our primary concern."

"No," nodded the female Turk. "The Northern Crater is."

"Alright," said Marlene quietly. "So what do you know?"

"Not much," Elena admitted. "We've managed to locate several suspicious complexes elsewhere that may be linked, but…it's been impossible for us to get inside undetected. With the shield now up over the North Crater, however, it's been decided that we no longer have the luxury of time. Unfortunately it's taken us longer than anticipated to call up and organize the necessary forces—our company no longer has the power that it used to hold."

"Personally, I think we just oughtta locate Cloud and point him at them," Reno muttered. "Always worked before…"

"Cloud's in no condition to fight," Vincent murmured, shaking his head. "He's a wreck."

Denzel winced; it was a harsh assessment, but he couldn't deny the truth of it—and that was without seeing how Cloud was with one less arm…Denzel could only imagine.

"I could pull some people from the WRO," Cait said abruptly. "We're stretched thin, even considering how far back we've pulled our borders, but…"

"It would be appreciated," Elena nodded, pulling a map from the inside pocket of her suit's coat and spreading it on the table. It showed the main continent, all the way up to the frozen north; several places were circled with red ink. "We'll be hitting these positions with our own strike forces, but backup would be welcome; we've very little intel about what's inside. That's where you come in." She nodded to the non-Turks.

"You want us to join those groups?" Denzel asked sharply.

"As 'shock troops', yeah," Reno nodded, leaning back in his chair so that the wicker creaked. "If you haven't noticed, me 'n' Elena are kinda getting on in years. Not so much up to the fighting anymore, more with the orderin' others around. But you three," he nodded at Vincent, Red, and Cait, "don't have that issue, and Vincent's vouched for you two." He flicked his fingers at Denzel and Marlene.

Denzel nodded slowly. In his years of wandering the world he'd gotten into more than his fair share of trouble—well, that wasn't quite true. _Everyone_ who was any sort of traveler ran into trouble these days; with the fall of Shinra and the lack of elite SOLDIERs to keep the monster population down, trouble was everywhere. The WRO could only manage to keep monsters from the cities…and apparently, thanks to whatever force was behind this, that was now starting to fail as well.

But even before now, times had been hard. It wasn't just monsters he'd fought; outside of the cities, there were plenty of people who thought that the strong should rule and the weak should submit, and Denzel had needed to prove his own strength—or defend those who couldn't—on more than one occasion. Marlene, he knew, had traveled just as much as he had; while he didn't really know how she had fared, she was still _alive_, and that meant she had to have won quite a few fights, too.

There were four red circles on the map; Denzel stared at them. They were all out in the middle of nowhere, spread apart from one another, and he had to give the Turks some credit: it couldn't have been easy to find those places. "Do we split up, or do we all go to one?"

"That depends on how quickly you can learn to use these," Vincent said, dipping his hand into his cloak and tossing several coloured orbs at Denzel and Marlene.

Denzel caught his out of reflex, feeling his breath catch in his throat; he looked up reflexively. "Materia is banned," he said, raising an eyebrow. "By not only the WRO, but Shinra, Wutai, and every independent city on the continent. It's supposed to harm the planet."

"You really think it's going to be that bad?" Cait asked quietly, looking at Vincent. "I had to fight a long time to get materia banned. Not many people were happy about it."

It was Elena who answered. "We don't know what we're going up against. That's the problem—it's a powerful enough organization that they've managed to hide from both our network and Vincent's. We can only guess it'll be bad—and if they're into the Northern Crater, they probably won't have any qualms about using materia for themselves."

"Materia use takes from the planet, yes, but not much," Vincent explained quietly. "One person using it once in a while won't tip the balance—although many people using it will. That's the reason for the ban: to ensure companies don't start using it large-scale like Shinra used to do. Our need for materia, however, is far more urgent."

"I see," Denzel nodded, turning over the orbs that he'd caught; green, and blue.

"We'll have your weapons modified so that they fit them," Elena said, tilting her head. "It shouldn't take long. We can also get you some light armour with materia-slots in it. Walking into this unprotected wouldn't be wise."

"When do we go?" Red asked.

"Tomorrow," Reno said, smirking slightly as Marlene and Denzel gaped at him. "Learn fast," he added.

---

With the help of the phonebook, finding a doctor is much easier than he had expected. The book is evenly divided into sections based on each doctor's specialty—and, sure enough, there are several pages filled with ads for various clinics that are dedicated to prosthetics.

_Edge really _has_ grown. _

In the end he just picks the one he's closest to, and takes off on Fenrir. It's not a long drive, but he nearly gets lost several times—Edge is structured much differently than Midgar was. This city has grown out, instead of in and up. Still, he makes it, and is soon parking the bike in front of an impressive, white-walled building with clear glass doors.

He winces. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. The white brings back…not memories, but recovered recollections; vague realizations and imaginings that he had discovered—much to his disappointment…

Gritting his teeth, he enters the building.

The inside is much like the outside; clean, white, sterile. There's a small waiting-room, about a quarter-full of people; some are clearly missing limbs, while others appear to be wearing prosthetics; he can tell from the way their lifestream seems shunted, diluted in what would otherwise appear to be a normal arm or leg. Still, the fact that part of their lifestream _does_ extend to the fake limbs is impressive; he wonders what the doctors have designed, to make it so. Extra nerve control, maybe?

He gets a lot of stares. The amount of stress in their lifestreams' spike, and it presses against him like a wall. He hardens the shield.

Ignoring them—albeit with some difficulty—he walks over to the receptionist's desk; the young woman sitting behind it looks at him askance.

_What, does no one wear swords anymore? _

"Um—can I help you, sir?" she asks dubiously. Her lifestream coils about in fear.

"The doctors here work with prosthetics?" he asks, struggling to keep an icy note out of his voice. This place sets his teeth on edge; it's really _not_ difficult to maintain his shield of rage, here.

"Um, yes, sir, but you'll need to make an appointment—we're, uh, quite busy, really—"

He glances at the unfilled waiting room.

"We've lost several doctors to competing clinics," the receptionist explains quickly.

"When could I get an appointment?"

The woman looks down and flips through a book with names and times written in it, before looking back up and smiling nervously. "Well, ah, we're all booked up until next week, but perhaps—"

"Do these competing clinics have shorter wait-times?" he interrupts.

She looks offended. "Well, maybe, I wouldn't know—you can't tell with those second-rate places."

"Thanks for your time," he tells her, and walks out.

When he reaches Fenrir he stops, and suddenly has to control his breathing. Emotion pours over him—fear, guilt, regret…shame…it's enough to make his shield waver, even with his sword to bolster it, and he rasps out, "No…"

It stabilizes.

_Time to find another pay phone,_ he thinks grimly.

It doesn't take long; pay phones seem to be all over the city. This time, instead of noting one address, he just tears out the section that lists the clinics and takes it with him as he hunts down the next closest one. Again, he nearly gets lost. The most straight-forward route that he can puzzle out takes him into a darker part of the city, where the buildings are more run-down and the people don't have cars…and kids are clustered around corners, some keeping watch while the others sleep in the streets.

He can recall carrying packages of food to give to kids like these, once, but he doesn't have any now. He didn't bother packing up the supplies his friends gave him when he left Midgar; all he's got is what he originally had, a few changes of clothes, his swords, potions, gil…Kadaj's katana. No food.

No materia, either. _Stupid…_

He avoids that thought and continues on his way, passing back into a better-looking part of the city, pulling up to another white building, passing through another set of glass doors. _This_ place is busy; people in white lab coats are bustling through the reception room, calling names and talking to the two receptionists that sit behind the desk, going from one door to another. He has to try hard to not shudder.

The coat-wearers give him a wide berth, for some reason, as he walks over to speak to one of the receptionists—a young man, thin-faced and harried-looking. "Put your name on the list and sit down," he is told before he even opens his mouth, as the man shoves two clipboards toward him without looking up­. One is a list full of names and times, and he frowns; it looks like the earliest spot on the list is an hour and a half from now.

_At least it's today_, he thinks, unclipping the pen and jotting his name down in the earliest available spot before handing the clipboard back to the receptionist. The other clipboard has several forms attached to it, and he glances at the waiting room. It's not someplace that he particularly wants to be sitting for the next hour and a half, so he heads toward the door. He can fill out forms outside just as well as he can inside, after all.

Apparently the people who run this place have a different viewpoint, because as he pushes open the glass door he's interrupted by a lab-coat-wearer, who tells him, "Sir, I'm sorry, but if you're going to leave we'd really like the clipboard back—"

"I'm just going outside to wait," he retorts patiently, turning to look at the young man accosting him. "I've put my name on the list for half an hour from now; I'm not going anywhere."

"Uh—oookay," is the response he gets, as the young man backs away slowly. "Um—you, uh, do that."

_Huh?_

He frowns. Okay, so he knows he probably sounded pissed off when he said that, and he's carrying a big huge sword, but that reaction was a bit much. He turns to look at his reflection in the glass of the door.

_Oh._

His eyes are glowing. _How long have they been doing that? _It's been ages since his eyes glowed…they began to fade right after he first defeated Sephiroth.

There's no way to tell. It doesn't look like they're glowing bright enough to illuminate anything—not in the bright lights of this room, or the sunny day outside, at least, although he supposes that it would be a different story if it were pitch-black. He shrugs, and goes outside to sit on Fenrir and fill in forms.

---

Much to Denzel's surprise, it turned out to be quite easy to use materia, especially with it slaved right to his rifle. It was also a huge rush.

"Careful," Vincent said dryly as Denzel incinerated another tree with a single shot. "The aim is not to set the forest on fire."

"I don't even need ammunition with this," he muttered, grinning.

"It's a convenience, yes."

"Vincent—" a thought occurred to Denzel, and he turned to look at the older man, suddenly worried. "Tifa once said that you had to practice with materia to get really good with it. If I can do this so easily," he gestured at the line of blackened tree stumps, which were interspersed with shards of frozen bark, "how can a small group of us hope to stand up to a base full of people who might have materia?"

Vincent shook his head. "It's the materia itself that grows, not the user. The materia that I've given you and Marlene has already been mastered—you only need to learn how to use it properly. Hence," he looked back at the trees, "practice."

Denzel took a deep breath. "Right."

He was about to try burning down another tree—much to his dismay, he was finding it was harder to aim his modified rifle; the weight was subtly different—when a ring tone split the air, peeling off metallic sounds of victory. Denzel blinked; it certainly wasn't his phone, and Marlene, Red, and Cait were a fair ways off, the latter two teaching Marlene as Vincent was teaching him.

With great surprise, he watched Vincent pull out a cell phone from somewhere under his cloak.

"That's your ring tone?" Denzel asked incredulously.

Vincent just gave him a blank stare, and flipped the phone open; Denzel could faintly make out the sounds of someone talking on the other side.

"I see," murmured Vincent after some time. "Alright. Yes. Keep an eye on him, please?"

He snapped the phone closed, calm and poised as if nothing had happened.

"Who was that?" Denzel asked suspiciously.

"One of my eyes," Vincent said in a low voice. "Cloud's been spotted—in Edge."

Denzel blinked. "But…he can't get near people."

"Apparently he can now," Vincent shrugged. "My contact said Cloud was acting oddly, but I'm not sure whether or not that means he was acting out of character, or just being himself. It was mentioned, however, that his eyes were glowing…and he was carrying his sword."

"His eyes were glowing." Denzel let out a low whistle. "Wow. What does that mean? What's he doing in Edge, anyway?"

"Apparently, getting a new arm," Vincent said dryly.

---

"_Fuck!"_ Cloud _yelped, jerking upright as a giggling Marlene and a grinning Denzel poured a bucket of ice-cold water over him, soaking not only him but the floor as well, and covering it with slippery ice cubes. Denzel goggled; he'd never heard Cloud curse before. For a moment both he and Marlene poised to run—but then Cloud slumped back into the puddle, throwing his arms across his eyes. _

"_Cloud," remonstrated Red XIII from a few feet away—the ice water had been his idea—"Don't swear around the children." _

_Cloud groaned and muttered something unintelligible. _

"_You shouldn't sleep on the floor, Cloud," Marlene giggled, pushing around an ice-cube with her toe. _

"_Oh, you!" came a voice from behind them, and the guilty trio—not that Red looked guilty—turned to see an wan, green, irritated-looking Tifa standing behind them, one hand on her hip, the other holding a bottle of aspirin—extra-strength. "Clean this up—now!" _

"_Tifa, stop talking so loud," Yuffie mumbled from the other side of the bar. All of the adults, it seemed to Denzel, had woken up looking ill and disgruntled. Even Vincent had seemed paler than normal—before he'd disappeared. They'd all gotten up, though, after Red XIII had given the two children permission to wake up their elders however they wanted—not that they'd done much to anyone else. They were too leery of Tifa's hung-over ire. But Cloud had been stubborn in rousing from unconsciousness. _

"_Adults sure are grouchy after getting drunk," Denzel whispered to Marlene, as they turned, disappointed, to start collecting dishtowels for the floor. _

"_At least none of them threw up," Red mumbled, to which Marlene had the best reply: "Ewwww!" _

"_Marlene," came a hoarse voice from beneath Cloud's arms, "Please…talk lower?" _

"_Huh?" Marlene asked innocently, her high-pitched voice clearly audible throughout the entire bar. Nearly every adult groaned; Tifa passed out the aspirin. _

"_I was rather worried after you downed that third bottle of absinthe," Red told Cloud, who was still lying in the puddle of ice-water. _

_There was a pause, then—"I did_ what?_" _

"_You drank three bottles of this really disgusting green stuff that looked like it was glowing!" Marlene chirped helpfully, generating another collective groan. "And then you started going on about how some girl loved you." _

_Cloud removed his hands from over his eyes, wincing, and blinked in her direction. _

"_Marlene!" Tifa ordered tiredly, sounding like she was gritting her teeth, "I need you to go to the grocers across the street and see if they have any more aspirin. There's money upstairs. Denzel, the floor!" _

"_Aww!" Pouting, Marlene left, and Denzel forlornly watched her go. Now who was he going to make fun of the adults with? _


	5. Chapter 5

An hour and a half later, judging by the clock on his phone, he is standing in the waiting room, trying to meld with a corner and be unobtrusive. He's long since filled out all the forms…mostly. They asked a lot of questions that he either had no answer to—"Who is your current physician?"—or couldn't remember the answer to—"Weight," "Height," or "Prior injuries".

"Mr. Strife?" the receptionist calls, motioning toward one of the doors. "You're up." He notices that the young man doesn't bother to look up, and is slightly grateful for that.

He peers through the doorway, not knowing what he'll find beyond; to his relief—_what were you expecting?_ he asks himself scathingly—there's only a hallway beyond, with doors leading off to the left and right. He takes a few unsure steps down it, not certain where to go, but then a lab-coat-wearer bustles out of one of the doors, takes one look at him, and squeaks.

He raises an eyebrow at the man.

"Uh, you would be Cloud Strife, yes?" the doctor asks, trying to recover his composure. "I'm Dr. Flemmings—er, come in, come in…"

He allows himself to be beckoned through the door. The inside looks more like an office than anything else. One wall is lined with books and files, but there's a padded examination table instead of a desk, and he nearly winces at the sight of it.

"Er," Flemmings asks tentatively, "Would you mind leaving your sword at the door?"

"Yes," he replies, point-blank.

"Um. I see. Well, er, moving on…" the small man moves over to one of the shelves and pulls off a clipboard; he recognizes it as the one that he filled out. "Cloud Strife, age—what?" Flemmings blinks at the top form, and then glances over at him. "You can't possibly be forty-one."

He looks away, and mumbles, "Mako."

"Mako? Mako…er…oh, mako!" the doctor exclaims, eyes lighting up with curiosity. "You mean you—you must be an ex-SOLDIER, then, one of those warrior people—wow! Man, I didn't know it stopped aging—sorry, I don't know much about it, I moved to Edge only a few years ago, from a real little small town…"

He breathes a silent sigh of relief, feeling somewhat less nervous. If the doctor _had_ expressed knowledge of mako…

"…anyway," Flemmings cuts off his own rambling, "Uh—it says here that you managed to lose your left arm?"

"Mm," he nods.

Flemmings glances at the clipboard again, and whistles. "Right up to the shoulder, eh? That's a nasty injury—when'd it happen?"

"Yesterday."

_That_ comment makes the doctor's jaw drop, and he watches the man struggle to stutter, "Wh—what? But—I mean, I heard stories about SOLDIERs being superhuman, but you really shouldn't be running around if you got your arm chopped off yesterday—here, I need to take a look at it, for the prosthetic, too—"

Uncomfortably, he fumbles with the straps on the sheath—fortunately it's easier to get off then on—shrugging it off and leaning it so that the sword's blade is touching his boot. It seems to be enough. _Must be physical proximity. _Then he shrugs off the left shoulder of the coat, which is really easy to do without the sheath to hold it in place, or an arm. He stares at it, for a moment; he can clearly see the end of his shoulder—there's barely a stub left of his arm—as his sleeveless vest doesn't do much to hide it. Skin has grown over it already, scar-smooth and pale, and he shudders as he looks away.

Flemmings hurries forward to take a look, frowning at it, and then at him. "Are you sure you did this only yesterday? God, I mean—"

"Mako," he reminds the little man.

"Whew," the doctor whistles. "Huh, that must be some stuff—I wonder why no one tries using it for medical purposes. Could help a lot of people if we could heal injuries that fast."

"Mm." That's a possibility that had occurred to many scientists at Shinra over the years; certainly, it had been enough to get Hojo to try a whole series of tests and experiments on him. The results always turned out badly…mako was so toxic that it caused more damage than it fixed.

"Well," Flemmings says, snagging a different clipboard and jotting down several notes, "That's a difficult kind of injury to get a prosthetic made for. Kinda hard to get it to stick on while not being all clunky, y'know? Still, there are some real cutting-edge techniques being developed that might help—I'm assuming you want something as close to your real arm as possible—?"

He nods, and the doctor continues, "It'll cost you quite a fair amount of money, though, to get stuff like that grafted on—most can't afford to pay it."

"Money's no problem."

"Really? Oh, well, I suppose an ex-SOLDIER must have tones of gil saved away," Flemmings chuckles, and he winces. The doctor doesn't seem to notice. "Anyway, what we can do is run you through a TXR—topography and x-ray machine, y'know?—to get a picture of your right arm, and then use that as a model to customize a prosthetic. Top-end money gets you a biogenic version that we just fuse onto the shoulder, then build on from there. Simple and painless! Only disadvantage is you can't take it off, but in return you get a limited amount of sensory information from the prosthetic itself."

He blinks at all the information. "How long?"

Flemmings considers this. "Well, we can get the TXR to make a model today, and then it'll probably take two to three weeks to get the prosthetic customized. From there? Well, it takes two sessions to get the entire thing assembled on your shoulder, so…uh, probably about a month and a half." Seeing the look on his face, the doctor continues hastily, "But, uh, hey, if you're really needing it quick, you could probably pay for them to hurry it up—I remember one rich dude who got his prosthetic made just a couple of days, though his was simpler than yours—we're a new clinic, without so many customers, so we can get stuff done quicker if we need to. And we might be able to compress the times between attachment sessions—though, really, they need to be at least a week apart, to make sure that the top portion goes well before doing anything else—one of the disadvantages of not being able to take it on and off, y'know, is that you really gotta make sure you get it on right the first time…"

A week and a half to two weeks—that's not so long, yet at the same time it's all the time in the world. The vague sense of urgency that he feels flares up again.

_Think,_ he tells himself. _You have no idea where you're going yet. You still need time to get supplies. And you really do need a second arm, a decent one—you've always been better fighting with two swords instead of one, despite everything…_

"The…arm," he says slowly. "How flexible is it?"

He sees the doctor's eyes flicker to the sword that's lying on the floor, still in its sheath—though, really, the sheath doesn't do much to actually contain the blade; it just holds it. "For fighting, y'mean?" Flemmings guesses shrewdly. "This new technology is much better than your average human arm—dunno how it'd hold up to a SOLDIER, though." He pauses to think about it. "With a few tissue samples, we might be able to modify it to make it nearly identical to your real arm…the material used, though, it really is quite nearly indestructible. These things are built to _last_."

Nodding, he asks, "How much?"

Flemmings whistles. "To get it done in less than two weeks, and with this new-end stuff—and special modifications on top of that? Man, I'd say you're looking at…well, several hundred thou gil at least, there. Maybe upwards of half a million."

"Alright."

The doctor blinks, and he can feel the man's confusion at his easy acceptance of that figure—confusion, and then envy…but good-natured envy. He supposes that doctors must be well-paid these days—it certainly seems to be a popular line of work.

"Uh, say, man," Flemmings begins on another topic—the way he can keep _talking_ is amazing; it reminds him of Yuffie, "We got a sorta doctor-engineer new to the team, and he takes special orders on the side, for people who're out fighting, and…well, y'know? If you wanted any special modifications—blades, that sort of thing—I think he's done gun-arms, too—he could probably get you whatever you need. It'd cost more, of course, but I guess if half a million gil doesn't bother you…"

For a long moment, he considers it, remembering Barret's gun-arm—and how he had leapt at the chance to get a version that could transform itself into a hand. Vincent's claw, though not an actual prosthetic, had helped the ex-Turk on a number of occasions…but such things don't feel _right_. He doesn't want to _be_ a weapon…he's had enough of that before, his mind taken, controlled, twisted…

_Puppet…_

"I…no," he says firmly, pushing the vaporous memories out of his head. "No."

"If you're sure," agrees Flemmings easily, making a few more notes on the clipboard, "Nothing else? Doesn't have to be a weapon."

He shakes his head; there's nothing he can think of that he'd need to store in his _arm_. The very idea is…creepy.

"Alright, I'll go drop off these forms and alert the tech-guys to fire up the TXR," the doctor says, toying with the pen that he's no longer using. "In the meantime you can talk to the receptionist about payment. You got a credit card?"

He blinks at the unfamiliar term. "Eh?"

It catches the doctor off-guard. "Uh—y'know, a credit card," Flemmings says, watching his face, evidently waiting for some sign of recognition that he can't give. "Er, well, I guess you don't know. But you got a bank account, right?" a weak chuckle, "Not carrying around a half mil gil in cash, are you?"

Maybe he should look into getting a 'credit card', if he has to stay two weeks in Edge anyway. "I have a bank account." Now, recalling what his pin is…that's another task.

"Cool, they can direct bill it, then," Flemmings rambles on, stepping over to open the door as he fumbles the sheath back on; it's harder with the sword already placed in it. "You'll have a new arm in no time!"

---

That evening, they discussed strategy.

"As much as I would like to have at least one of us in all four bases, I don't think you're ready for that," Vincent murmured, directing his gaze at Marlene and Denzel.

Denzel shook his head. "We can both hold our own in a fight."

"It's not that he doubts," Red murmured from where he was partly curled up on the floor. "Breaking into an unknown complex isn't like going into a fight. For one thing, it's a really stupid thing to do—but for another, you…can never be sure of what you'll find."

"Shinra did many awful things, and yet they agree that these people need to be taken down," Vincent said, his eyes seeming to glow red in the ill-lit room. "We should split three ways. Red, you go with Denzel, Cait with Marlene. I'll take a third complex myself."

"As much as I'd love to say otherwise, I can't say I'm going to be much of a help, necessarily," Cait warned. The serious look seemed out of place on the robot's face.

"All you need to do is be prepared to ground," Vincent replied cryptically, and then tossed two small packages at Marlene and Denzel.

Snagging his out of the air easily—when he'd been teaching him, Vincent had loved to randomly throw stuff at him—Denzel studied it: a clear capsule containing a small, white pill. He raised an eyebrow.

"Sleeping pills," Vincent explained. "We're leaving as soon as the helicopters get here—which should be soon. The ride will be long and it's not easy to sleep on a helicopter, but you'll need to be refreshed for an attack at dawn."

---

He stares at the receptionist—who has finally looked up at him, and then promptly away—and grits his teeth before saying, "I have my account number and pin. Why can't I pay with that?"

"Because you need a bank card," the man explains, with an air of long-suffering that is rather marred by the nervousness roiling through his lifestream. "You'll have to talk to them about it."

"Hey—uh, Mr. Strife?" It's Flemmings, and he's never been so glad to see someone wearing a lab-coat in his life. "Hey, look, the TXR is ready to go, if you'll follow me…"

"He hasn't paid, Dr. Flemmings," the receptionist says in a aggrieved tone. "He doesn't have a card."

Flemmings blinks. "Huh, you don't have a bank card either?"

He shrugs, muttering, "Thought an account and pin would be enough."

The doctor frowns, but then seems to dismiss this with a shrug. "Oh, well, hey, the machine's ready to go now, so you really oughtta get going—you know how the tech guys are," he adds, speaking over the receptionist's spluttering. "Here, just this way…"

He's led through another door, down another hallway, but he's frowning; Flemmings seems different, somehow. His lifestream speaks of awe, and uncertainty—and not for the reasons that had been present before. Flemmings is hiding something.

"Why are you so sure I can pay?" he asks, not bothering to moderate the coldness in his voice.

The small doctor jumps. "Uh, well, hey, what's the use of getting a TXR scan if you're not gonna pay for the prosthetic, y'know?"

"You're lying."

The man _squeaks_ again, and he has to wonder if it's some habitual sign of nervousness. "Okay—okay! Uh, well, I got a call from one of Mr. Valentine's people, and they, uh, kinda filled me in. Wanted to keep an eye on you."

'_Mr. Valentine's people'? Once a Turk, always a Turk, I guess…_

"Why?" he asks, still feeling nothing but ice running through his veins.

"Well, hey, uh—apparently you saved the world," Flemmings says, and his lifestream is filled with sincerity. "You and Mr. Valentine. I kinda missed it yesterday, what with everything, but you're famous, and I'm sorta not objecting to repaying a favour like that, y'know?"

He doesn't know, but it doesn't seem like Flemmings intends him any harm…

"Anyway," the doctor says hastily, opening the door to reveal a small room, "You can change in here—there's a pair of scrubs on the chair, there," he points, "and—uh, well, I'm afraid you're gonna have to leave your sword in here. The TXR can be a bit sensitive to metal, if it's in large pieces."

He nearly cringes at the thought of leaving his sword behind.

"That…uh, okay?" Flemmings asks when he doesn't move.

Biting back a sigh, he nods, hoping this will be worth it. Still, there's no use in being stupid… "If something happens," he murmurs, "Give me my sword, and call Vincent Valentine."

"Uh—something?" Flemmings asks, but hastily nods when he looks at him. "Yeah, uh—yeah, sure. Okay." The doctor backs out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

He can't help but feel trapped, enclosed in this place, surrounded by people who _feel_ of science—not all of them as benevolently as Flemmings. Shuddering, he begins to change, keeping the sword near to him. The earring is last to go.

Then he summons up his anger, and opens the door.

The floor is cold against his bare feet as Flemmings leads him to another room, which opens to reveal a large, very technical looking machine standing before a white screen. There's a small table between the screen and the machine, with clamps on it, and he has to bite his tongue at the sight of those restraints to maintain his hold on the shield. His focus narrows to a pinpoint; he's barely aware of Flemmings directing him to place his arm on the table, then strapping it down so that he doesn't accidentally move while the machine is 'doing it's thing'—it's all he can do to follow the orders while holding the shield in his mind, because he's _so damn angry_.

Time passes. The machine whirrs, his arm is released, and Flemmings cheerfully leads him back to the room where his stuff is. As soon as he gets within reach of his sword, he collapses from sheer relief.

"Woah!" Flemmings exclaims, rushing over to him, his concern feeling almost tangible, it's so _present_. _Yes,_ he decides groggily, _this man is a good person. _"You okay, man?"

"'m fine," he mumbles. "Don't call Vincent."

"You sure?" the doctor asks, reaching out to help him to his feet. He's grateful for the assist; holding the shield against the pressure of so many living things…that was difficult. He nearly chokes.

"I'm fine," he repeats. Flemmings looks by no means convinced, but backs out and shuts the door anyway, allowing him to get changed.

He takes longer than he has to, and only opens the door and steps out when he's sure that he's not going to start shaking. Flemmings is outside, waiting to guide him back to the waiting room—why, he's not exactly sure, but maybe the people in charge just don't like people with big swords running around unwatched inside their building. It's as likely an explanation as anything else.

"Where's a bank?" he asks the doctor, hoping for directions that won't lead to him nearly getting lost.

He's in luck. Flemmings knows where to go, and then—wonder of wonders—shows him that he can actually bring up a map on his new cell phone. Modern technology is so wonderful. It's a bit hard to read, but it's detailed, and he can zoom in and out easily.

Still, he can't help but wish that the doctor would tone down the awe.

---

Later, Denzel learned that Vincent hadn't been exaggerating. Helicopters were _loud_, even with sound-dampening headphones. They shook, too, and while the seats were very padded, they weren't shaped right for sleeping. Even with the small pill trying to drag him into oblivion, Denzel tossed and turned, his veins thrumming with adrenaline at what was to come tomorrow.

They were about fifteen minutes into the ride, Cait Sith sitting on a plush seat across from Denzel, when the robot announced, "I need some sleep," and went still.

That left Denzel alone in the dark passenger cabin, staring out the window and listening to the thrum that seemed intent on burning its way into his bones. After a time, they seemed to be flying through and then above some low-floating clouds, that coated the valley they were following. Moonlight reflected off of the billowing vapours, coating the picture with a clear, silver sheen. It was an awe-inspiring sight, but he couldn't help but be glad that he was flying _over_ it; beneath such mists, he knew, the most terrible creatures of the darkness prowled, free from the light of moon and stars.

Such creatures were a relatively recent development, and they hindered every human settlement. Denzel frowned thoughtfully. When he had first set out travelling, such things had not been a concern; true, it wasn't smart to travel at night, but that was more because there were many groups of lawless humans wandering around, and travelling at all was stupid. Now, the nights were clear of such cannibalistic predation, but something else, something worse, had taken its place.

_Spread so quickly…maybe this plot goes farther than any of us considered,_ he thought darkly. _I wonder if Vincent suspects. _

Knowing his teacher, Denzel thought it likely, and that scared him, making him turn away from the moonlit vista. Vincent, his teacher, had been thwarted by this. Shinra, the bogymen-turned-philanthropists, had been thwarted by this. And Cloud, his hero—for all his flaws—Cloud had nearly been destroyed by this, whatever his true involvement.

Without any of them managing to figure out what _this_ was.

Shaking his head resolutely, Denzel pulled out his cell phone and dialled home. It was late, even where his family lived—far east of his current position—but the phone on the other end was picked up after only two rings, and when Carol asked, "Hello?" her voice was not clouded by sleepiness.

"Hey, love, it's me," he said, feeling a jolt of warmth shoot through him at the sound of her voice. "I'm sorry I called so late."

"It's okay," she said, and he fancied that he could hear her smiling. "I just got Sim to bed and was having some hot chocolate. How are you?"

Sim—full name Simon, named for his maternal grandfather—was quite a handful when it came to being put to bed, or even in the evenings before the B-E-D-T-I-M-E word was said, and Carol often enjoyed a quiet cup of tea or hot chocolate in the later evenings. Usually Denzel was there as well, and they would talk over the day's events quietly or just sit in wonderful, love-filled silence, depending on the mood. Occasionally they'd snuggle up before the fireplace and fall asleep there, and Denzel would have a crick in his neck the next day. He really wished he was there now.

"Worrying," he said, and filled her in on the events of the day. Talking helped; by the time he was done, he was actually yawning, the sleeping pills taking their toll.

"I wish I could give you some sort of advice," Carol said, sounding wistful, worried and slightly angry. But it was directed against his foes, not at him—although maybe some was directed at Cloud for dragging him into this mess, Denzel suspected—and he could feel her supporting him. She was strong: the kind of person that it took to raise a family and a business and a household out on the wilder areas of the continent. "But all I can say, really…I love you, Denz. Be careful."

"I will," he promised.

---

The bank, surprisingly enough, is the least troublesome of everything he's tried to do today. Normally he's always had issues getting his money out of people—_but perhaps the WRO does more good than I thought_, he thinks wryly. Or maybe he just happened to walk into a bank that, by some freakish coincidence, was staffed by all the idealistic people in the company that ran it, leaving every other bank with the usual cynical money-grabbers. Given his past experiences, he can't help but think the latter is more likely.

Credit card and bank card in hand, along with a brochure carrying a dizzying amount of information about recent advances in banking, he goes back outside, almost feeling like whistling. His accounts have grown sizably in the years he's been away, and they weren't modest to begin with. Money for the prosthetic is no concern.

_Maybe I should start giving it away again…_the image of the slums flashes before his eyes, but he shakes his head. _Prioritize. Deal with that later. You do have two weeks, after all. _

The time constraint makes him itch.

He glances at Fenrir's fuel gauge, and is dismayed to see that it's half-empty. Fenrir can carry a _lot_ of fuel—he'd had it custom designed, after all, and he'd known that he'd be traveling across long distances, so the fuel tank is _huge_ and the engine is super-efficient. But even half of Fenrir's tank won't last forever. Time to go in search of a gas-station—which, he fears, might be difficult. He hasn't seen too many cars, in this area of the city at least; bicycles seem to be much more popular.

He can name half a dozen gas stations that used to exist near Seventh Heaven, and is willing to bet that at least one of them is still there—but he doesn't want to go someplace that he could be recognized. There's no real _reason_ for it, just a vague feeling…that way lies painful memories.

_The map_, he remembers, and pulls out his phone. Sure enough, there's an option that allows him to locate 'traveler's centers'—restaurants, hotels, and…gas stations. He can feel himself almost smile as he regards the screen. It really _is_ quite useful.

_This will only leave food,_ he thinks, and speeds off.


	6. Chapter 6

"Listen up!" one of the blue-coated Shinra officers yelled, jumping up to stand on an overturned crate. The low hum of babble from the various assembled troops instantly ceased.

The WRO and the Shinra soldiers didn't mingle, Denzel noticed—and he felt distinctly on his own. Cait had gone over to converse with the commanding officer for the WRO contingent, leaving Denzel standing right between the two groups, as far back as he could manage while still being able to see the front. He wanted to be unobtrusive…not clueless.

"Alright!" bellowed the officer. "You've all been individually briefed—"_ They have?_ Denzel thought, starting to feel a bit panicked. _He_ hadn't… "—but we'll go over this one last time while we're all here. Our friends from the WRO," he gave both sides a pointed look, "Will be using their explosives to blast open the doors for us. Shock troops with armoured shields go in first and set up a perimeter, followed by sweep teams."

A nudge at his leg distracted Denzel from paying attention, and he looked down; Cait Sith was hopping up and down on his foot. "Hey, gimme a boost, will ya? It's kinda hard to see."

Obligingly, he settled the robot on his shoulders, trying to ignore the curious stares as he did so. Not that the men and women of Shinra and the WRO actually _stared_—they seemed far too well-disciplined for that. Instead they just seemed to watch from the corner of their eyes, which was far more disconcerting.

"Accompanying the forward point team will be Denzel Lockhart and Cait Sith," continued the officer's bellow. Now the troops _did _stare. "They're here at the request of General Valentine, so you are to follow their orders, provide them cover if they need it, but otherwise stay the hell outta their way! They're here to take care of the extra-ordinary stuff, so make sure that _our_ types of targets don't bother them!"

Denzel fought the urge not to shuffle his feet as several dozen battle-hardened faces turned to regard him. This was made somewhat more difficult by Cait Sith's grinning presence; he was pretty sure that he could detect scepticism on some of the not-quite-so-expressionless faces.

_Oh, toughen up_, he thought firmly, trying to rally his will. _You've taken on plenty of stuff harder than these urban-raised pansies; looks ain't everything. _They _weren't trained by _General Valentine…he resisted the urge to frown at the thought.

"Point teams will sweep the area and establish a rolling perimeter, with backup coming behind! The WRO troops will be securing the outside perimeter and making sure we don't get trapped inside! Prisoners are to be taken if possible, but searched _immediately_ and shot if they give any resistance! Anything that looks like a weapon or an unknown object should be confiscated! We go room by room, hall-way by hall-way, in radio contact at all times—command frequency is channel two! Any labs must be secured and reported immediately so that we can get our scientists in. Are there any uncertainties about this mission?"

"NO, SIR!" bellowed the Shinra troops.

"MOVE OUT!"

Shinra and WRO personnel piled into separate trucks; Denzel looked around, completely lost.

"Buck up," Cait murmured from his perch on Denzel's shoulder. "Vincent trained you, remember?"

The words were even less reassuring than when he'd been saying them in his head.

"Sir," came a call from an approaching Shinra soldier, dressed in full body-armour. The sight made Denzel acutely aware of how unused to his new light armour he was—although the glowing materia orbs that he knew were attached were a great comfort. "The commander's orders say you're with Alpha Sweep."

"Uhm. Yes," Denzel replied cautiously. His uncertainty seemed to dismay the soldier, and Denzel could practically read his thoughts—_Is this guy for real? _

"Yes, sir," the soldier saluted respectfully, his voice containing none of the dismay that his eyes showed. "We've got a spare mask and headset for you, sir, if you'll come this way."

The soldier took off at a quick jog toward the closest transport unit, and Denzel broke into a run to keep up, the weight of Cait Sith on his shoulder throwing him off slightly. "Gaia, you're heavy," he muttered to the robot.

"Sorry," Cait apologized. "If I had my moogle…"

"Yeah, yeah," grunted Denzel, clambering into the back of the truck. Immediately, soldiers on either side of the back slammed up the tailgate, and the truck began to rumble away.

"Here, sir," said the soldier who'd tagged him, passing him a strange looking contraption. At Denzel's confused look, the man explained further. "Just pull it over your head, sir. It protects you from gas, sonic booms—most of the basic primary defence systems. The headlink is already set to two. Press the right earpiece to switch it to talk, and then again to switch it off. Our unit channel is four—anything you say automatically gets transmitted through that once the channels get turned on. Goggles are for dark-vision—they pick up infrared traps."

That seemed easy enough. As soon as he pulled it on, not bothering to pull down the goggles for now, the sound around him seemed to alter slightly, just enough so that it was noticeable without being distracting. No one was talking on the channel, but he didn't think it would be a good idea to test it out and make sure it worked.

"Primary weapon is a rifle, sir?" another soldier asked from where he was seated up front. The uniform on this man was different—an officer of some kind, probably the leader of this little group—but he didn't know how to tell rank from the uniforms, so he just nodded.

"Modulated to auto-fire," he said quietly, proud at how even his tone came out, and wondering whether or not to include the fact that there was illegal materia attached to it. "Does about three rounds a second at top speed, though that screws precision."

There was a chuckle from the soldiers, and Denzel relaxed slightly; apparently weapons was a topic that these people could appreciate. "Always does, sir," one of the soldiers agreed, sounding more amiable. "Must've cost a bundle."

He shrugged. None of the members of Avalanche were poor, and Tifa and Vincent had been the ones to purchase his primary weapon for him. The rest he had earned on his own, but they'd wanted to make sure that he was going out into the world with as much of an advantage as he could get.

"Just so we're clear," the officer growled in a low tone—not unfriendly, but definitely authoritatively, "What exactly is it that you're clear to take care of?"

Denzel glanced at Cait, who was still perched on his shoulder, and the robot hopped off onto the floor of the moving truck, opening his mouth to speak. Before he could do so, however, the truck rolled to a stop, and the back door swung down. Denzel, closest to the back, scrambled to get out as Cait leapt back onto his shoulder.

"Once we're inside, don't worry about me," Cait said quietly. "Just remember that I ain't in danger of dying, okay? And I can hear everything you can hear, in case you were wondering."

"I was," Denzel replied grimly, reaching an arm around to thumb the release that dropped the rifle into his waiting hand, and then pulling the goggles down to cover his eyes. Instantly, the dimly-lit, pre-dawn scene became as clear as noon—although it was tinged a definite green colour. Adrenaline was pumping through him in earnest, now, as he watched lone WRO engineer scrambled away from what looked like an iron door embedded into the ground.

"Channels on," chimed the headset, and Denzel shut up.

"Not very well hidden, is it?" Cait noted, as the Shinra soldiers took up their positions, guns trained on the door.

"Clear," came a voice through the headset, and Denzel closed his eyes. There was a flash of light against his closed eyelids through the goggles, and then he opened his eyes to see armoured Shinra troops dropping into the hole, their comrades guarding them from above.

There was a long, silent wait.

"Perimeter set, command," echoed another voice. "No contact."

"Alpha Sweep, we're cleared to go," came the gravely voice of the officer from the truck. "Gunner, Renfield, take up positions and cover Lockeheart and Sith. Move!"

Denzel ran toward the hole, waiting for two armoured forms to drop down before jumping himself. It was a fair drop, but short enough that it was a simple task to land on his feet; in fact, it felt easier on his toes than normal, and he wondered if the materia-enhanced armour was not doing more than he'd expected.

Cait bounded off of his shoulders as Denzel followed the two soldiers, who moved through blank, downward-sloping hallways at a careful walk. They passed more soldiers, who waved them through with a series of hand signs that Denzel couldn't decipher, while the rest of the small unit brought up the rear.

An open door loomed to the right, and the sweep team moved through it carefully, covering each other as they did so. But the room beyond, while huge, was empty.

"Something's not right here," Cait's voice echoed through the headset. Denzel looked over sharply, but the cat hadn't actually spoken aloud.

_He's a robot—maybe he's tapped in directly. _

"I'm getting that," one of the soldiers replied, as the unit swept the room. Denzel looked carefully, trying to spot some sort of trap, but it was one of the soldiers who noticed the slight difference in one section of the walls.

"Looks like we've got a secret door, here," she reported—Denzel was slightly surprised to hear a woman's voice through the headset. In their bulky armour, all of the soldiers looked the same…but he supposed there had to be a number of women in Shinra's corp. Marlene was a better fighter than he was, after all, even if he could technically dish out more damage.

"Command, Alpha Sweep's got a secret door, here, looking pretty suspicious," the unit leader reported.

"Stand by," someone—'Command', supposedly—replied.

There was a pause, then—"Beta Sweep has found one as well."

"Delta team reporting that the left hallway is a dead end."

"Epsilon dittoing that on the right, Command."

"Wonderful," muttered the Alpha commander, his voice sounding somewhat quieter—Denzel was starting to hear the difference between the unit and command channels. The difference was hardly large, but it was there.

"Perimeter, expand," ordered Command, and the quiet sounds of soldiers moving echoed slightly into the room, as another unit joined them. "Beta Sweep, an engineer's on the way. Alpha, Lockhart can blow out the door for you."

The perimeter and sweep soldiers looked at him a bit disbelievingly, but Denzel just shrugged, bringing his rifle up to bear on the indicted section of wall.

"You might want to stand back," he said, wincing slightly at how his voice sounded through the headphones—he sounded like he was seventeen, not twenty-seven.

The unit commander gestured and the soldiers backed up against the wall, raising their blast shields defensively. Denzel joined them; there was no sense in him getting hit by flying debris, and the rifle had more than enough firepower to take out the door from three times the distance. Plus, this way he could duck behind one of their shields, if it came to that.

He rotated the materia barrel that the Turks had added, and fired.

Lightning arced out from the gun, dancing over the wall, leaving a blackened spot in the middle but not breaking though. That hadn't been his intention, though—the lightning was to neutralize any electrical systems about the secret door. Toggling it again, he switched to ice, and sent a stream of frost at it, freezing it.

Then he switched to fire, toggled the barrel back to 'ammo' mode, and pressed the rapid-fire trigger. Compressed bolts of burning energy lanced out, hitting the frozen door and shattering it like glass.

There was an impressed silence from the headset.

"Command, Alpha Sweep's door is open and we're moving forward," the unit commander reported, even as the two point soldiers began to move forward again, this time more cautiously.

"Acknowledged," Command's voice replied. "Delta is your backup. Beta Sweep?"

"The engineer's working on it, sir."

The Alpha Sweep unit moved forward, Denzel and Cait following along in their midst, as another group of soldiers detached itself from the perimeter guards and followed behind. Past the secret door was another hallway—this one leading to a catwalk over a huge cavern.

"What the hell?" came a mutter through the unit line.

"Gunner, what do you see?" the unit commander asked. Far ahead, Denzel could see one of the scouts—Gunner, he guessed—leaning out over the side of the catwalk.

"There's no door above or below, and no end—so secret doors, either," Gunner reported, his voice filled with wariness. "Trap, I'd say."

"Ya think?" Cait chimed in, suddenly urgent. "Man, get back!"

There was a rumbling up above, and the two scouts turned as one to try and sprint back along the catwalk. They were almost to the edge when the rumbling came to a climax—and the roof opened up.

A hoard of unidentifiable _things_ appeared out from the opening, some falling onto the catwalk, some crawling over the roof, and some flying. They looked like darkness incarnate—they had no features that did not appear to be hidden by shadows. One large blob fell onto the unfortunate scouts; they screamed and were still.

"DENZEL!" screamed Cait, and Denzel saw the flash of a summon. He didn't wait to see _what_ the robot had pulled out—he just fired, shooting in a wide streak that drove the shadowy blobs back…slightly.

"Command, Alpha Delta meeting outnumbering contact, two casualties, requesting support!" the unit commander shouted through the headset, then, on the unit line, "Marks and Graham, grab 'em and retreat! Pull back to the door and perimeter!"

"Beta Sweep, hold!" Command ordered.

"We're halfway through the door already, Command!"

The shadows kept coming; some were driven back by Denzel's energy shots, and others were picked off by the soldiers, but they seemed impossible to kill—and there were far too many of them. Two soldiers ran forward, trying to get to the downed men, but were cut off as the sinuous creature that had dropped from above undulated toward them, growing in size.

"Fall back!"

They retreated.

The sweeps behind them and the perimeter guards joined in the firing line—but the damn things wouldn't _die_. Frantically, Denzel tried switching to ice, then lightning, but nothing seemed to affect them for more than a few seconds.

"Get out and hold them out of the hallway!" Cait yelled over the command channel, and the perimeter broke. Denzel backed out last, sweeping the room with flame, leaving the robot standing in the middle of it as the small cat pulled out another materia orb.

"QUAKE!" Cait cried aloud, as the creatures swarmed toward him.

The room shook like a pogo-ball, and Denzel threw himself backwards, out of the way of the falling roof. There was a squealing sound over the headset, like a line shorting out—and then there was only the sound of falling rock, as the room was completely buried.

The silence in the hallway was at odds with the chatter over the headset.

"Command, the roof just fell in on our door! What happened?"

"Roof's unstable in this area! Falling back, Command!"

"Command, Alpha and Delta Sweeps _requesting orders urgently_!"

"Hold your perimeter, Beta and Gamma Sweeps! Retreat leap-frog," Command retorted. "Alpha and Delta, ensure no hostiles remain, then leapfrog back!"

In the relative silence of the hallway, as a dozen eyes swept the rubble for any sign of the shadow-creatures—a cell phone rang.

Every eye turned to Denzel.

"Fuck, you've got a cell phone on you?" one of the Alpha Sweep soldiers said incredulously over the unit channel.

Denzel flipped it open, trying not to drop it from sheer mortification. "Yes?"

"This is Reeve," said a male voice that Denzel couldn't recognise; it was gravely, made rough by age. "Cait's controller."

_Of course,_ Denzel remembered. Reeve.

It was hard to equate a small robot with the man who'd led the WRO to control a majority of the cities on the mainland continent.

"What is it?" he asked, fully aware that everyone in the unit could hear his replies to Reeve.

"I'm getting reports from elsewhere here. The bases were traps," Reeve told him grimly, "All traps. Three—like ours—were just dead ends filled with monster pits. Vincent's wasn't. Our entire team there was massacred—we don't know if any were taken prisoner. They shot down the crew that tried to run in the rescue helicopter."

He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. _Vincent_. It was very hard to think that the ex-Turk could be dead—he had always been a survivor.

"We need to get him back," he said, feeling dull.

"I know. I'm calling for a team to find Cloud—something that could take down Vincent…"

"Cloud's in Edge," Denzel said, confused. "Vincent found him." _And apparently didn't tell anyone else._

Reeve swore. There was silence for a moment, then—"Order the command of your force to extract—Shinra can carpet-bomb the area if they want to be safe. Rendezvous at Healin. I'd order them myself, but…with that model of Cait gone, I'm a bit limited at the moment."

"Will do." The line went dead before the words had finished leaving his mouth, and he snapped his phone up—then reached for the earpiece, belatedly remembering that the Alpha Sweep team could have heard the last parts of what he said.

_Damn it, they can make of it what they want_, he thought, frustrated, and opened his line to command.

"Command, this is Lockhart. New orders from above are to pull out, carpet-bomb the area, and retreat back to Healin to await further orders."

The command channel—which had previously been cluttered with urgent chatter—went silent.

"On whose authority, Lockhart?" Command asked cautiously.

"Reeve's," he said, his voice a lot calmer than he felt.

"Acknowledged," said Command, a trace grudgingly. "All units, withdraw the perimeter and return to base."

The walk out was silent.

---

The ride back to the secondary base, where the choppers waited, was uncomfortable. Denzel was again in the truck with the Alpha Sweep crew, but now they were missing two people; while Denzel hadn't known the scouts, he could feel and sympathize with the air of grief that hung over the others in the truck.

"You allowed to tell us what the hell happened back there, sir?" the unit commander said after a long silence, his voice still hard, but now subdued. They were no longer using the headset channels; everyone had taken off their units, allowing Denzel to see their faces, grim and dour in the clear morning light; the sun had fully risen while they were underground. Among the remainder of the once eight-man team, there were four men—one of which he recognized as the unit commander, though he _still_ didn't know the man's rank—and two women.

"It was a decoy," Denzel said quietly. He couldn't really see any point in hiding what he knew; even if their unknown enemy had spies, no doubt they would have figured out what they knew already—which was, he had to admit, not much. "Meant to divide our resources. The only real base…was far too much for the quarter-force that was sent there."

"Damn it," someone whispered, and Denzel could understand the sentiment. It was never good to lose people—but to lose people to a damn _decoy_…

"We gonna get to pay back the bastards that done this?" drawled one of the men—Denzel _thought_ it was either Marks or Graham, but he wasn't sure. "Sir," he added belatedly, but Denzel didn't think it was an intended insult. Behind the man's drawl, he seemed genuinely shook up—although reading the emotions of any of the Shinra soldiers was difficult.

"Dunno," Denzel muttered. "That's really up to Reeve."

His phone rang, again, drawing a couple of weak chuckles.

"Bad idea to leave your phone on during a secret mission, sir," said one of the women, quietly sarcastic, and Denzel fought not to flush.

"Mm?" he asked, opening the phone.

It was Reeve again. "Denzel," he said, sounding frustrated. "Do you know where Cloud is in Edge?"

"No. Vincent didn't say."

"Damn it." Reeve was silent for a moment. "I don't know how to get in contact with his network."

"Reno or Elena might know. Have you contacted them?"

"I've been trying. In the meantime…I think you and Marlene ought to go to Edge. He'll respond better to you two than to any of us—he always has."

"Reeve…you heard Vincent. Cloud's in no condition to fight," said Denzel, starting to frown with worry. "He's not going to be able to help."

"If he's able to move around Edge, he can cope," Reeve said harshly. "The reason he's in no condition to do anything is because he's a mental wreck and he's failing at starving himself to death. You two can slap that out of him—and if he still thinks of you as the children he walked away from, he'll let you."

"I don't think that's the only thing wrong with him—"

"It's worked before," Reeve interrupted him. "Ask Marlene. Look, we need to figure out what Cloud's up to anyway…if he really can't help, well, we'll come up with something else to compensate for his absence. Just go to Edge, please? And take a few guards—you might be a target now."

The phone went dead. Denzel stared at it, frustrated; he had to fight the urge not to toss it over the side of the truck. _It's just a phone,_ he chanted in his head. _No use breaking it—it's not Reeve's head._

Instead of breaking it he hit Marlene's speed dial, and waited for her to pick up. When she did, she sounded pissed off as hell.

"You heard from Reeve?" she demanded, not even bothering to ask who was calling, although he _knew_ she didn't have caller ID. He wondered if she did that often—and how many embarrassing situations that had gotten her into. But now was not the time to ask.

"Yeah," he replied. "What happened on your end?"

"Roof fell in," she replied, sounding bitter. "The sweep team they stuck me with made me go in last—I was the one closest to the door. It was a complete _waste._"

"We had flying monsters," he reported. "Though our roof fell in, too—Cait made it, to cut the things off. They wouldn't _die._"

"Damn. I wonder what happened to the third group."

"I wonder what happened to Vincent," he replied darkly. _We do need help. _

Marlene was silent for a moment, before saying, "Anything that could take down Vincent could take down any of the others." Apparently she was thinking on the same track.

"In a group they might help, though," pointed out Denzel, suddenly thoughtful. That was a possibility he hadn't considered before.

"No," Marlene replied, and Denzel could imagine her shaking her head in frustration on the other end of the phone. "Tifa's still way better than me—but I can beat her in a fight, just because I'm younger and faster and stronger than her, and her knees slow her down far too much. Barret's got his gun-arm, but he'll just be in the way if there are more of those close hallways. Cid—well, you heard him. He said it was nasty of us not to tell them where they were going, but he didn't even bother objecting. The only one wouldn't be in the way is Yuffie, and she has other responsibilities. If she's taken out, it's not just one family that's grieving—it puts an entire country at risk."

"You really think we need to find Cloud," Denzel said doubtfully.

"I do. If _Vincent's_ been taken down, then Cloud is the only one powerful enough to possibly deal with these people." Her voice was firm. "Tifa told me once that Cloud's physical ability has always depended upon his mental state. All we have to do is get his damn attention." She sighed. "I don't know how easy that will be. I've sorta helped do it before, when he wasn't so far gone…but it's still our best chance."

"Alright," Denzel agreed reluctantly. "I'll see you in Healin, Marl."

"Take care of yourself, Denz," she said quietly, and they both hung up.

_Fine_. He took a deep breath. Apparently Marlene thought that they ought to go find Cloud, too, and he had to admit that they had a point. The stakes had changed.

_Before, we were dealing with a powerful, unknown entity, spread across the map,_ he thought gloomily. _Now we're dealing with an _extremely_ powerful, still-unknown entity, which appears to be congregating in one location. _

Denzel glanced up at the unit commander, to be met with a half-dozen faces turned expectantly toward him in a silent request for information.

_Well, Reeve did say bring backup._

"How'd you like to go find a weapon we can use to thrash these bastards?" he asked the unit at large, not even wincing at the way he found himself referring to Cloud.


	7. Chapter 7

It wasn't _quite_ that simple to get to Edge, of course. Once they arrived back in the primary base, it was an eight-hour helicopter flight to Healin—a chaotic flight, because they didn't have the helicopters needed to transport the entire force. Denzel got first priority, however, as did his sweep team, and he took advantage of the long ride to secure permission from Command to hijack the Alpha Sweep.

"Where are we going, sir?" the unit commander—whose rank and name, Denzel had finally gathered, was Lieutenant Gillard—asked when he heard the news, as the other soldiers gave him small, vicious grins.

"Edge," Denzel said with finality. "We're meeting up with someone else in Healin, though."

Gillard nodded, seeming to accept that for now, and turned away, back to the post-mission report that he'd been working on.

"Sir," one of the soldiers said, sounding amiable but cautious, "Permission to ask a personal question?"

Denzel blinked. "Er, depends how personal you were thinking."

For some reason, the others seemed to find this hilarious. The soldier who'd asked grinned. "I was wondering where your position in the command line goes, sir. You're sorta breaking the general rules to pieces."

"Wanting to know how much to brownnose 'im, Marks?" one of the women said teasingly, and Kiir gave her a good-natured grin before flipping her off.

"Aww, he ain't my type—no offence, sir. Now, if you wanted me to kiss _your _ass, my darling Midge…" he trailed off, leering, and it was Midge's turn to make a rude gesture at him. The rest of the unit hooted—quietly, though, in the presence of the Lieutenant.

It was a lack of…strictness…that he had not expected from Shinra soldiers—not around a stranger, at least. But he supposed that in the end they had to be human…and, too, there was the fact that, as much evil as Shinra had done in his childhood, and however much Tifa refused to forgive them, the company _did_ seem to have reformed—even if they still kept commando units and military helicopters on standby.

"Shit, Marks, you're a bit of an idiot to have not figured it out," jeered one of the other soldiers, a dark-haired, older man with a slighter build, whom Denzel pegged as a sniper. Denzel blinked a bit; even _he_ wasn't exactly sure of what his status with command was.

"Oh?" said the other, as-yet-unknown woman. "_Do_ tell, Kiir."

Kiir looked to him as if seeking permission, and Denzel shrugged. He could always correct the man later, and he wanted to see what he'd let slip.

"You don't know either, Ross? Really…your skills _must_ be slipping, darlin'. His last name's Lockhart," drawled Kiir. "And I'm guessing you're related to _that_ Lockhart, am I right, sir?"

"I'm the adopted son of Tifa Lockhart, yes," Denzel replied, somewhat concerned with where this might be going. _I really need to be more careful while discussing things on the phone…_

"Which means that you're a dead shot, sir, because you were taught by General Valentine himself—which may be why you call him by his first name—and you've probably got at least a few of the old-day toys to back you up," Kiir continued. Denzel's thoughts flashed to the materia slots hidden in his armour, and the three orbs stored into his rifle.

"A few," he confirmed.

"Hence you have no actual rank, sir, but since the people running this are ex-AVALANCHE, or ex-enemies-of-AVALANCHE, you know all the shots and they know what you're best off doing. And so when you're talking about how 'Cloud's in Edge', and now we're going to Edge, I'm figuring we're going to go retrieve Cloud Strife—whom you're thinking will be kinda kooky because he's been missing for over a decade. Sir," concluded Kiir.

"Very accurate," Denzel confirmed quietly. Though he could have disagreed with the finer points of its conclusion, Kiir had hit the nail pretty much on the head. _Yes, I _definitely_ need to be more discreet when I'm on the phone._

"Who's Cloud Strife?" asked the youngest soldier of the group, a stocky, short young man.

This time, however, it wasn't just Kiir that groaned; the other four soldiers all made teasingly rude gestures at their clueless teammate. "You don't get _stuff_, do you, Grahams? Jeez, and you were waxing on and on about how you nearly died from geostigma as a kid, too."

Denzel felt his heart clench.

"Hey, I did!" Grahams defended himself. "Lots of people on the Midgar outskirts got it—probably because we were so close to Meteor and the lifestream, and those damn ruins. But then it rained and got cured up all by itself!"

"Geostigma was Jenova's work," Denzel said quietly. "And Sephiroth's…I think. Cloud killed Sephiroth, and stopped Jenova from preventing the rain." _And never told anyone about whatever else happened,_ Denzel thought, remembering the party they'd had afterward. Barret had asked something about Sephiroth—and Cloud had promptly decided that SOLDIER enhancements or no, he _was _going to get drunk.

"Before that, Cloud Strife led AVALANCHE to defeat Sephiroth and stop Meteor," Kiir lectured Graham in a bored voice. "Seriously—have you been living under a rock?"

"We don't all spend our time using our scopes to lip-read politicians, Kiir," Graham retorted lazily. "So he beat…Sephiroth, you said? Who the hell is Sephiroth?"

"You _are_ an idiot," Midge said tartly. "Sephiroth—the Butcher of Nibelheim? Former General of the elite SOLDIERs? Commonly acknowledged as the most powerful magic-user and swordsman who ever lived, right up until Cloud Strife handed him his ass on a platter?"

Denzel felt a little overwhelmed. Okay, so he'd heard stories—it was hard to get away from, as a kid going to school in the small town of Edge. Somewhere in the back of his mind he'd _known_ that his friends were powerful…but it was weird, being an adult and hearing Shinra troopers speak about Cloud this way—_with awe—_or 'General Valentine'. And Cait Sith, in his role as Reeve, was…actually, really just a pain in the ass. Denzel liked the robot better.

"I hadn't heard that Strife was supposed to be nuts, though," Ross said, turning towards Kiir with a raised eyebrow. "Where'd you run across that tidbit of info?"

"Oh, you know, the higher-ups. Scared some of them right out of their minds when he vanished—they were searching for him for months before they finally figured he wasn't up to something, and gave it up," Kiir replied nonchalantly. It made Denzel wonder how watched the rest of them were—well, maybe not him. But he wondered if Tifa knew…

The conversation lingered on the topic of AVALANCHE for some time, giving Denzel plenty of fuel for uncomfortable thoughts.

---

That night, after checking into a hotel using his spiffy new bank card, and ordering in a large dinner by room-service, he decides to go hunting. The memory of flipping about, easily throwing force from his sword—the feel of _right_ when he fought, the triumph of _winning_—seems like a bright memory in the darkness of the evening, and it calls to him, irresistible.

He goes. It's not like he has anything better to do.

The night wind brushes against his skin like a caress as he races Fenrir out of the city, leaving its well-lit streets behind in favour of the open road. There is far more _life_ in the wastelands around Edge during the night than during the day; the thin blades of grass now call to him with the voices that are a hundred times stronger, and there are creatures, stirring, here and there—he can feel them. Occasionally, they hint of aggression, and it is these he races towards, defying their presence, blazing with power as his shield forces their whips away from his mind like feathers before a windstorm.

He turns off his headlights; even if he couldn't see in the dark, the road in front of him is lit by the blue glow of his eyes.

Something looms ahead; something nastier, _darker_ than the rest, and his emotions flare in response, feeding anger into the shield, until it glows so brightly in his mind that he is not sure whether or not the road is lit from his mako eyes, or by his mind alone. It's an intoxicating feeling, a freefall of emotions as he rushes toward an enemy he can't see at Fenrir's top speed. He draws his sword, climbing up to stand on the seat as he had that afternoon, aiming himself straight for the nightmarish beast, and _jumps._

It's cold, so cold, as cold as the fury that he's wrapped about himself as armour. It's surprisingly incorporeal; though it has a solid mass in its centre, most of the beast is merely dark, freezing mist—mist that he easily cuts through, although it feels solid on his skin and in his mind. He tucks into a roll midair, turning to meet it feet-first, driving it backward and making it lash out with the darkness that surrounds it—as his feet grow numb, too cold to feel, even though he only contacted its core through his combat boots.

It throws him away and he falls trying in vain to tuck into a roll to absorb the impact—and not making it. The ground slams into him like a ton of bricks and he bounces from the sheer force he hit it with; it _hurts_. He's not sure if he's broken something or not; the numb feeling is spreading upward from his legs, and suddenly this night-time joyride doesn't seem like a really good idea after all.

_I was winded by climbing stairs this morning_, he thinks as he tries to stand up—trying to figure out where the damn thing _is_; he can feel its presence, but its location is blurry. _I haven't fought anything in years. I'm missing an arm. _

It's behind him, he realizes, just a bit too late. He dives to one side, barely avoiding being clipped by it, as he is plunged back into the obscuring black mist. Cold settles over him, and he has to force himself to keep moving—but icy rage does nothing to combat the frozen feeling that settles over him from without; if anything, it makes it worse, duplicating the feeling within.

Desperate, he turns, lashing out with the sword—somehow certain that it will not be able to damage him through _that_. For a moment, blue fire burns away the blackness; the thing _shrieks_, and he is _within _it—the mist really _is_ part of it, some dazed part of him notes…right before it bowls him over, knocking the sword from his hand and sending him flying again.

He lands in a heap, too dizzy to keep up his shield without the sword. The thing's malevolent _presence_ slams into him. It is unlike any presence he has felt before, even a human one; this one doesn't just lash at his skin, it rakes at him, disembowelling him and cutting him to pieces, making him scream as it eats his flesh. He can feel it moving closer—the black mist closes over him, and, oh, god, he wants to _die_ and he _can't move_ as its core comes nearer, and nearer, until suddenly it has flayed his mind open and he can _see_ it for the first time, and _knows_ what it is. He can feel its mouth opening, as it takes a bite of his soul and he screams—_this_ is pain, everything else was mere discomfort—

It chews, swallows…and throws up.

---

When they met back in Healin, Marlene was nursing a swollen elbow. "I kinda had to throw myself out of the way pretty fast," she explained a bit sheepishly when Denzel raised an eyebrow at it. "I didn't land as well as I could've."

"You should get a potion for it," he told her quietly, watching the Shinra troops bustle around Healin—it seemed almost like they planned on taking over the place in a more literal sense.

She waved it off. "It looks worse than it is—it's not enough to waste a potion on."

Such things were rare these days.

"We'll be traveling for a bit, anyway," she shrugged. "Did Reeve tell you about his insane idea to send body-guards with us?"

"Yeah, and he had a point," Denzel said, wincing at the admission. "I've already gotten permission to take the Shinra team I was assigned with—they seem like good people, and competent."

"You're not serious?"

"He _has_ a point," Denzel said, injecting a bit of the sternness that he usually reserved for his two-year-old son. Marlene made a face and punched him lightly in the arm.

"Where's Red?" he asked to change the subject, as he looked around for the big furry creature. There was no sign of him.

"Took off—to Cosmo Canyon, I think." Marlene sighed. "They're preparing for war, Denzel. Not just Cosmo Canyon…the WRO, Shinra…all the independent cities are being sent messages. I talked to Yuffie earlier—she's already back in Wutai, with Cid. They're preparing a force, too; Cid's working on upgrading their airships."

"We've gotten our most powerful leader taken out of the equation in one failed raid, we have no knowledge of our enemy, and we haven't even gotten started on the Northern Crater," Denzel said quietly. "It's past time to start preparing for war."

---

Shinra had made sure they were all well equipped, providing the sweep unit with civilian clothes, and everyone with motorcycles. They weren't as good as Denzel's personal, customized one—which was locked in the garage in Seventh Heaven—but they were nothing to laugh at, either. It was clearly obvious that they had been designed for both speed and combat; the armour plating was reinforced but light, and the motorcycle was really just a skeleton frame aside from that.

Night had fallen by the time they would have left, and since only idiots traveled at night while exposed on a motorcycle, they agreed to wait until morning. Or, rather, Marlene and Denzel had agreed, and Gillard had grunted and passed it along to the sweep team. The lieutenant wasn't one to talk much, Denzel was learning.

They made an early start as the sun began to rise over the eastern horizon. Denzel was feeling wide-awake already; he'd slept hard and deeply, and if he'd dreamt, he could not recall it. Marlene hardly looked so happy, but she'd never been a real morning person anyway. The sweep team was silent, falling into a guardian formation around Denzel and Marlene that they both found irritating, but could not protest.

By midmorning they were roaring through the wastelands around Edge, the outskirts of the city starting to come into view in the distance. The sky was as clear as a bell, a deep blue that allowed the sun to bake the desert, and Denzel was sweating in his traveling clothes. He was trying to fumble his water canteen out of the motorcycle's saddlebags when the two scouts, Midge and Marks, slowed to a halt, waving some obscure hand sign. The rest of them slowed as well, congregating in the middle of the dirt road.

Midge waved a hand up ahead at the road. "Looks like a downed bike, sirs," she reported in her brusque voice. "Might be something hanging around."

"Detouring around it would take forever," Denzel said quietly. "We can proceed with caution, but…"

Gillard nodded, and the sweep unit moved as one to ready weapons, releasing them from easy-store catches and holsters. From the corner of his eye, Denzel saw Marlene pull on her gloves, and he checked to make sure that his rifle was loose in the bike's holder. It was.

They drove forward more slowly, approaching the black lump in the road with caution. As they got closer, Denzel could see just how large a bike it was—fully as large as Fenrir. He raised an eyebrow, impressed. They didn't make bikes like that anymore—except for a shit-load of money. They hadn't _ever_ made bikes like that except for a shit-load of money.

"_Crap_," swore Marlene, and revved her bike ahead to scream to a stop beside the fallen motorcycle, despite the protests of the sweep unit. She inspected it for a moment, and then looked up, meeting Denzel's eyes. His heart plummeted.

"It's Fenrir," she confirmed grimly. She dismounted, bending down to inspect something on the far side of the bike that Denzel couldn't see. "One hell of a dent in it."

"Shit," Denzel whispered.

"Sir?" Gillard asked, his eyes dark and questioning.

"Cloud Strife's bike," Denzel replied grimly. "He has to be around here somewhere."

The lieutenant nodded, and then bellowed, "Hoi, Sweep! Marks, Ross, you're taking the left side of the road. Midge, Graham, you get the right. Kiir, follow the road." He glanced at Denzel, adding in a quieter voice, "Description, sir?"

"Uh, one person, probably wearing black, with really messed up blond hair," Denzel called, and the sweep team broke.

He kicked down the kickstand on his bike and dismounted, walking over to the side of Fenrir that Marlene was standing on. True to her word, there was a huge dent in the bike's left side, and Denzel _knew_ that the bike was built to take a beating. He'd once seen Cloud ride it off a two-hundred-foot cliff, and land upside down—well, the bike had. Cloud has somersaulted off in midair and ended up perched halfway feet up. Fenrir hadn't even gotten scratched. When Cloud had commissioned the bike, he'd paid for the absolute best, and then gone out of his way to make it better.

"Damn," Denzel muttered again, and then moved to help Marlene roll the bike into a semi-upright position.

He reached out and felt around the bike, locating the hidden catch that popped the sword cases open. Cloud had had some sort of key that did it automatically, but he'd once shown Denzel the manual release, and Denzel had never forgotten.

All of the swords were missing.

"_Damn_," Marlene said, her voice two octaves lower than normal.

"HEY!" a loud cry from Graham made Denzel whip around so fast that he cricked his neck. "_Found 'im, sir!_"

He and Marlene ran, their combat boots making tracks through the rough scrub at the side of the road. Graham and Midge were standing beside a dark, face-down form, and Denzel could clearly see the trademark spiky hair. Midge was kneeling, one hand on Cloud's neck, the other hand raised so she could see her watch—it looked like she was taking a pulse.

"He's alive and breathing, sir, ma'am," she reported as they ran up, "but his skin is colder than anyone else's I've ever seen. It's almost like he's got advanced hypothermia, but…" she glanced up at the swelteringly hot sun.

"Must've been a creepy-crawly," Denzel muttered.

"I wonder if he was out at night," Marlene said, her high voice soft. "There're plenty of tales of things that can do something like this…"

"Less tales of people being left alive after the fact," Midge said grimly.

"Fenrir," Denzel said, looking up to meet Marlene's eyes.

"He might have some," she said, and took off at a sprint back toward the bike. He watched her go; he'd be no help there. He had no idea how Cloud had kept his potions and restoratives organized.

"Sir?" Graham asked, looking after her.

"Cloud used to keep cures in his bike," Denzel informed him shortly. "It might help."

"His clothes are cold, too, sir," Midge said, frowning.

He nodded absently. "Can you and the others go see if you can find his sword, please? It's pretty huge—very hard to miss. It'll take more than one of you to lift it."

Midge's eyebrows climbed up past her bangs, but she nodded, jerking her head at Graham. Denzel wondered if that meant she was higher-ranking than the younger man—Graham didn't hesitate to jog back to where the lieutenant was keeping watch over the parked bikes.

Marlene came back, shaking her head. "He's got nothing that might help with the cold," she said glumly, kneeling down to try and roll Cloud over onto his back, with some help from Midge. There was an imprint of dirt left on his face, and she brushed it off gently.

Cloud's eyelids fluttered, and he mumbled something.

"Cloud?" Marlene asked anxiously, leaning over him. He flinched.

Denzel jerked as if he'd been struck. "Shit, Marlene, don't touch him—"

Her mouth dropped open in horror. "Oh, god, you're right—" she scrambled back from where Cloud lay, and Midge, looking confused, did the same. They all backed off, moving back toward the bikes and Gillard.

"Damn it," muttered Marlene. "We can't help him if we can't even get near him."

"What do you mean, ma'am?" Gillard asked, evidently confused.

"Cloud, um, is unusually sensitive to the presence of people," Denzel struggled to explain tactfully. "It's sort of painful for him to be too near other living things."

"But you said he was in Edge, sir."

"Yeah, we're not too sure how he managed that," Marlene sighed.

Beyond them, a good eighty feet away, Cloud stirred, climbed to one knee, and stood, drawing his coat about him with one hand. Denzel blinked.

"He's up?" Marlene blinked, surprised.

"Cloud!" Denzel called, and the blond turned toward them.

His eyes were glowing. Denzel could see it clearly even across the distance that separated them. From this distance and angle, the heavy greatcoat seemed to shroud Cloud's form, making him appear more heavyset than Denzel knew he actually was—more intimidating, too, not that the eyes wouldn't have done that all on their own. Denzel had never seen Cloud's eyes glow before, although he'd heard stories from AVALANCHE about how they used to, back before Cloud defeated Sephiroth, the first time…and before he fell into despair and was rescued by normalcy, only to fall again.

For some reason, Denzel had to fight the urge to kneel before this man. His head felt heavy, weighted, imploring him to sink to the ground and prostrate himself before this saviour of the world, who had—

Instead, Denzel cut off that thought and cupped his hands around his mouth, using them to amplify his voice as he shouted, feeling rather like an idiot, "Are you okay?"

"Of course he's not okay," Marlene hissed beside him.

Cloud nodded—Denzel could only really see that because the source of the blue glow dipped for a moment. Then he turned and began walking away from them, at an angle that was away from the road, too.

"_Cloud!_" Marlene called, her high voice carrying easily over the distance. "_Can we_—" she stopped abruptly, and then swore.

"Marl?" Denzel asked her.

She pulled out her phone, and dialled.

A moment later, a ringing tone echoed through the air, coming from a small, black object that was lying a few yards back up the road from Fenrir.

"Screw that," Marlene muttered. "I guess he lost it. Not the first time." She raised her voice again. "_CLOUD!_"

Cloud stopped, stooped, and picked up something huge that glittered in the morning light. The sword. The glow in Cloud's eyes dimmed, although it was still noticeable, as he reversed it without flourishing and sheathed it.

The feeling of insignificance vanished.

Then he trudged towards them—them, Fenrir, and the road. Lieutenant Gillard gave a short, high whistle, the type that could carry for miles under clear skies and over open desert like this, and on the edge of his attention Denzel noticed that the sweep team members all began heading back at a run, their hands ready with weapons, and he looked sharply at the lieutenant.

"Cloud's not our enemy," Denzel declared, his voice harsh.

"Maybe, but he's also not right in the head, sir," Gillard replied quietly, respectfully—and unbendingly. "Precautions, sir."

Denzel snorted, and waited, trying not to stare at Cloud as the man trudged toward them—and trying not to stare at Cloud's left sleeve, which, despite the heaviness of the coat, hung just a _bit_ too empty to be filled. Marlene made a motion to step forward, but Denzel held her back.

"Let him come to us," he murmured, thinking of Vincent's words. _Vincent._

_Do we have time for this?_ Denzel wondered.

Cloud stopped about ten feet away, and looked at them; Denzel fought the urge to shudder. Cloud looked…blank. Not expressionless; not as though he were concealing his thoughts or emotions—just blank, as though there was nothing behind his face at all, as though he were a puppet, strings being pulled to move his limbs, but no intelligence of his own behind it.

"_Cloud…Cloud was once a puppet,"_ he could recall Tifa telling him once. _"It gave him a hatred of puppet-masters that I don't think he'll ever lose…which makes me I'm glad—and very, very angry." _

He looked like a puppet now, pale, short, and skinny, standing as though he was supported by strings, not the ground.

"Marlene," the not-really-ex-SOLDIER said, his voice cold. "Denzel." The eyes flicked over the Shinra soldiers and dismissed them, returning to the second generation of AVALANCHE.

_As though he's assessing us as threats_, Denzel thought, taken aback at the tone, but it was worse than that. There was no fury in Cloud's voice, no protective, defensive tone, no threat—there was nothing that said, _Touch someone I care for, and die. _There was simply cold, a cold that reminded Denzel of the frozen plains in the far north, past even the Northern Crater, where the wind had blown frost over unending seas of glittering frozen death, and where Denzel had nearly died from the foolishness of wanting to explore.

"Cloud," Marlene said, her voice trembling slightly. "You're looking—you're doing better." The lie sounded obvious to Denzel.

They received a nod.

"We need your help, Cloud," Denzel said, trying to make his voice firm, but only succeeding in being a bit too loud. "Vincent's been taken by—well, we think…think it might have something to do with what's been happening."

There was a flicker in the glowing eyes, but not in the blank expression. Cloud turned his face north. "I'll go."

---

He feels cold. Cold, like death—like the melt-water running down from the Nibelheim mountains in the springtime, washing out roads, the foundations of bridges…eroding pathways, pathways through his mind, the pathways of his thoughts. He can't think, can't see; he's blind, unable to feel—_anything_. The only sense remaining to him is sound—he can hear, hear someone, something, telling him, _Walk forward. Pick up the sword. Nod_—and he obeys.

He has been eaten and then regurgitated…but once digested, can a soul's fragments be put back together? There is no answer from the voice.

There is only the cold.

Silently he curses it, raising his own mental voice against it, demanding an answer. It does not reply, and he is beginning to think that it is not capable of replying when suddenly, it manifests.

And he knows it—knows Her.

_I AM SORRY, MY CHILD, FOR WHAT YOU MUST ENDURE,_ Mother tells him, and he wants to scream but can't. The cold chokes off his vocal chords, and She holds him back, holds him at bay.

_I WOULD RELEASE YOU FROM THIS BURDEN, IF YOU WOULD ALLOW ME TO DO SO. IT IS MORE THAN SHE WOULD GRANT. _

This is the truth, he knows. Gaia grants nothing.

_BRING ME ANOTHER CHILD, MY SON… _

_I am your only child!_

_NO…YOU ARE MY ELDEST AND MOST FAVOURED CHILD, BUT NOT MY ONLY. I WOULD CUT YOU FREE OF YOUR INHERITANCE, IF YOU COULD BRING ME YOUR YOUNGER SIBLING. AS YET HE IS UNAWARE, IMCOMPLETE…BUT IF YOU BROUGHT HIM BEFORE ME…_

He knows who She is talking about—his brother is standing right there, in front of him, saying something that he cannot understand. It is impossible to miss. But as he looks at the boy—no, not a boy any longer; a man—he sees the grim distrust in his eyes and thinks, _He will never accede. _

But moreover, _he knows this man_—who is younger than himself, but looks older. This man has a life. A family. He cannot take that from him—he cannot ruin this man's life, as his own was ruined.

_Kadaj hardly considered his life ruined, _he thinks, but he cannot, _cannot—_he can only stall for time.


	8. Chapter 8

"_AHHH!" Denzel screamed as he flew through the air, landing hard on the dry dirt and stone by the towering cliff, barely yard or two from the edge. One moment he had been falling, hanging onto Cloud as the largest creature Denzel had ever seen sent him, Cloud, and Fenrir all flying, tackling the bike and it's passengers and sending it flying over the edge—and the next, Cloud had thrown him clear to the edge. _

_Denzel rolled, slapping the ground as his adopted parents had taught him—it was one of the tricks that had served him well in the face of school bullies—but it was a hard landing, and he bounced, the breath pushed from his lungs as his momentum was stopped by a particularly large rock. It felt like it took an eternity for his lungs to expand again, the muscles pulling in sweet, blessed air—but when he looked up, it was just in time to see the tail end of the dragon-creature_—Bahamut _Cloud had called it in defiant challenge—disappear from view. _

_Geography was not Denzel's greatest subject in school—maps didn't make much sense to him. But he_ had _explored the wastelands around Edge pretty thoroughly, and part of safe exploring was memorizing hazards such as cliffs. This particular cliff, he remembered, was a two-hundred foot drop, straight down. _

"_CLOUD!" he screamed, struggling to scramble to his feet._ Ow, ow, OW! _It felt like his shoulder was on fire, and when he glanced at it he could see how it hung, not in the socket._ Dislocated_, he thought dazedly, remembering health class. Every kid in Edge's school system was required to learn how to treat basic injuries, these days._

_But the pain felt __far away compared to his panic. The bahamut-thing had wings, and seemed to be able to fly—and it was large enough that a two-hundred foot drop was nothing to it—but Cloud was small and while Denzel usually felt assured that his hero/parent was_ invincible_, that feeling did not extend to situations where Cloud fell off of cliffs, especially not after Cloud had spent the effort to throw Denzel clear. He scrambled toward the edge, stumbling to a halt a bare foot from the drop, and looked over. _

_Below, the bahamut's wings snapped out, obscuring any glimpse of Cloud, as the great beast pulled into a soaring glide, stopping its own fall. It flew, whipping its tail—and smashing a dark, metallic object to the side with such force that its vertical fall was halted for several seconds. _

Fenrir, _Denzel thought, gaping in horror._

_Then—from halfway down the cliff, on a small, rocky outcropping that Denzel had eyed several times in the past, noting how it would make a good half-way point should he attempt to climb the cliff—there was another flash of metal and Cloud's form, made tiny by the distance, leapt after the creature as the bahamut turned to face its 'prey', its massive wings guiding it back toward the drop-off. Cloud flew through the air, seeming to defy gravity as he twisted and jumped, using the bahamut's massive body against itself. _

_There was a flash of blue fire…and the thing fell, still moving toward the cliff on its own momentum, but now in two pieces. Cloud was rising—given momentum by one last jump as he fell clear of the creature's body, which slammed into the cliff wall, sending massive tremors through the ground. _

_Denzel pitched forward, his usable arm flailing madly, and fell, his scream drowned out by the grinding of rock. _

_Something grabbed his foot, slowing his fall before arresting it entirely. He felt his shoe start to lift, felt the grip on his foot shift, tighten, until it was painful. For a moment he dangled like a pendulum, seeing the rock of the cliff face rush toward him, hearing rumbling and crashing as boulders rained down—but the grip shifted, moving him out of danger. _

_He looked up, craning his neck to see Cloud perched on the cliff, holding onto him by his left ankle. The six pieces of Cloud's sword were arrayed above him, shoved into the rock horizontally, providing a protective umbrella against the rock that rained down. For the life of him, Denzel couldn't see how Cloud was sticking to the sheer face of the rock—he wasn't holding onto his swords at all, and Denzel couldn't see any handholds. But then, his vision was a bit blurry at the moment._

"_By the way," Cloud murmured lightly, pitching his voice over the rumbling crashes, "Tifa says you're grounded until next year."_

_Denzel groaned and dropped his head back, as Cloud shifted his grip on Denzel's foot, carefully reaching down to grab his uninjured arm and hauling the boy upright, tucking him into a carry. The blood rushing into Denzel's head stopped, alleviating the headache that had been threatening to form and allowing his vision to clear. It was still an uncomfortable position, especially with his dislocated shoulder, but at least it didn't feel like his head was about to fall off anymore._

"_Cloud," Denzel asked fuzzily, "How're you sticking to the wall?" It wasn't like Cloud was wearing a climbing harness—Cloud didn't bother to go rock-climbing when he could just jump cliffs—but Cloud was using both arms to carry Denzel, and he wasn't standing on one of his swords, either—and there was no ledge, here. _

"_Small trick," Cloud said off-handedly, glancing at the dust that was still pouring into the air from below. "Why'd you run off?" _

_Denzel blushed. _

"_Mm," mumbled Cloud, one eyebrow raised._ I see, _his expression said clearly._

_Denzel blushed harder, and stammered, "She—she's really, really pretty, and clever, and nice…but…I guess she…" he felt embarrassment, mortification, sadness, all coming up to choke him. _

"_That's usually the way it goes," Cloud said, shifting his grip on Denzel so that he could put one gloved hand on the wall—and then he began to slide down the cliff. The rock fall had stopped, but the dust at the bottom made Denzel cough, and cough, shaking his shoulder, and then he remembered—_

"_Fenrir!" he gasped. _

"_Fenrir's fine," Cloud said reassuringly, setting him down so that Denzel could lean to the side—his uninjured one—against a smooth boulder. _

"_But it'll get scratched, you always say so—" Denzel began, half-accusingly, searching Cloud's face. To his surprise, Cloud looked away. _

"_Mm," he said, and there was a wealth of small embarrassment in that tone. _

_Denzel gaped. He'd always known Cloud was overly-protective of the bike, but he'd never imagined that maybe it was just because Cloud wanted to be—_

"_OW!"_

_While he'd been gaping, Cloud had taken opportunity of his distraction to pop his dislocated arm back into the shoulder socket. _

"_DAMN IT!" Denzel swore. _

"_You've been in school too long," Cloud murmured, but he didn't lecture like Tifa did whenever she heard Denzel swearing—not that Denzel usually swore in front of Tifa, but his mother seemed to have the ears of a fox when it came to hearing things that certain people shouldn't be saying. Cloud just paused, looking at him appraisingly. "You okay?" _

"_Kinda," Denzel mumbled, acutely aware of the bruises he'd received this day. He'd never realized quite how _painful _monster attacks could be—the only attack he'd ever seen before…well…he didn't remember much; he'd mostly heard of the big SIN creature and the shadowy wolves from Tifa's recount of the event. _

"_Mm." The murmur clearly said, '__No, you're not okay, but I suppose you're going to have to be in a state of not-okay for a bit longer, at least until we get home. Buck up, kid.'_

"_I'm going to go grab my swords and Fenrir," Cloud said instead of all that—well, it wasn't as though he needed to; the 'mm' conveyed his meaning clearly—and dropped a small silver whistle into Denzel's lap. "Whistle if you need to, okay?" _

"_Yeah," Denzel nodded, and Cloud vanished. _

---

Sixteen years later, Denzel waited near a door, in the exact situation that he'd been in a few days ago—with a few large differences. His childhood hero stood behind him, missing one arm, talking not at all, eyes still glowing; the effect was even more apparent in the darkness.

And they were going to rescue Vincent Valentine, First General of the WRO.

"Clear," called the engineer through the command channel. Denzel was wearing his headset again, the unit channel set to his sweep team; Cloud wasn't assigned to any particular unit, and nor was he wearing a headset—all he had was a radio. It wasn't like Cloud needed the goggles for night-vision, after all, and he apparently still had his ribbon. Denzel didn't want to dwell on why it hadn't protected him from the cold earlier—not yet.

The door burst inward and down, and teams rushed in.

Response was immediate.

Denzel wouldn't have even noticed it if it hadn't been for Cloud's sudden movement; without hesitation, as soon as the first man was through the door, Cloud turned and leapt straight up into the air, drawing his sword and whipping it in a circle. Blue fire spread out, tainted through with a sickly green colour, lighting up the pre-dawn scene and expanding outward to rip through an army of shadows that dropped down onto them from the dying night.

Swearing, Denzel set his gun to sheet fire, and held down the trigger. The continual blast of red energy swept over the shadows, driving them back—and this time, it seemed they could be harmed. Around him, Shinra and WRO soldiers were aiming their guns up, even as fire started sounding from the perimeter that had been established around the door. They were completely surrounded, it seemed—their entire force, the combined might of Shinra and the WRO, along with local irregulars.

"BACKUP, PROCEED!" screamed Command through the channel, and more units of men started dropping through the doorway, as gunfire sounded from below. Cloud flipped back down to the ground, landing easily in a crouch, his huge sword still drawn and ready as he sprinted to the door at a dead run, dropping out of sight—and from somewhere on the opposite side, Marlene followed, her form shadowy and lithe compared to the lights that danced about Cloud.

Denzel cursed again, the sound amplified through the channel, and ordered, "Move in to cover Cloud and Marlene!"

"We'll scramble the other units, sir!" Gillard protested.

"Watch me _care_," Denzel snarled, running to the door in the ground and dropping through, right in the middle of another battle zone.

It seemed like the abyss was opening up to meet them, sending all its hellish legions forth to overcome them. Dead and wounded soldiers were lying everywhere, some being dragged back to safety—but shadows poured over the walls and ceilings of hallways that were too low, forcing soldiers to kneel and cutting off quick movement. In the distance, down one of the hallways, Denzel could see blue and green light.

"INSIDE UNITS, DOWN!" he yelled over the command channel, and every soldier hit the ground as Denzel fired, sending sheets of boiling energy overtop of the humans to burn away the shadowy creatures. Then he took off after the swiftly fading blue-green light, running at a crouch through the charred, shadowy corpses, past the perimeter line, bursting into a lab.

There was no sign of Cloud or Marlene.

_Crap_, Denzel thought frantically, looking around for another exit from the room. The lab was a wreck—but it didn't look like it was Cloud or Marlene's work. It was full of glass jars, but each had broken outward, systemically, sending shards of glass across the floor—releasing the shadows, perhaps.

Or maybe not. Faint marks of dried blood on some of the glass made him look for a trail. There was none, but that didn't matter; heaped in one of the darker corners was a pile of small bodies.

_Children_, he thought, horrified. Had they been in the tubes? _Oh, Gaia, what mako might do to a child…Cloud doesn't age, but none of these kids can be more than nine or ten years old…physically. _

Behind him, the sweep team moved in, straightening as they emerged from the tunnel-like hallway. Reassured by their presence, Denzel drew closer to the macabre heap, his gun set to fire a wide burst, and prodded one on the bottom with a toe. Dead flesh gave like pudding underneath the nudge, and he was suddenly grateful for the filtering mask he wore. The labs here seemed to be sterile, clean; no doubt without the presence of bacteria and other carrion-eaters the bodies would have been partly preserved…but they apparently could decay nonetheless.

Graham moved up to stand beside him, and through the team channel Denzel could hear him muttering what sounded like a prayer under his breath. "Gaia bless them and keep them safe in Her living embrace, granting rest for the weary and healing for the wounded dead…"

A scrap of cloth caught Denzel's attention, and he bent down to examine it. Once it had been white; he traced the lining along the small body that wore it, and blinked in confusion. It was a lab coat—and now he could see that some of the other corpses wore similar material.

_What the hell? Child scientists—who experimented on themselves? This makes no sense. _

"Sir? The roof," Kiir reported. Denzel backed away from the children and swept his gaze upward to see a looming black hole in the ceiling.

Of course. Cloud could easily have jumped the distance—the ceiling here, while slightly higher, couldn't have been more than seven feet—and even Marlene could have jumped high enough to grab onto the edges of the hole and haul herself up. Returning his rifle to its holder, Denzel moved to do the same, and scrambled over the edge. The sweep team followed.

Beyond was a small tunnel—no more than three feet by three feet across, leading off into the darkness. His night-vision goggles revealed a turn to the left after thirty feet. Sounds rung through the metal, amplified by the solid, confined area—sounds of bullets, of men and women yelling, some screaming.

_Why the fuck are all these tunnels so small?_ Denzel wondered. The area they'd entered through could have been a back area, but somehow he didn't think so. _The children couldn't have reached the roof to crawl through here. _

He crawled forward, keeping his rifle in his right hand. Beyond the turn in the tunnel there were drop-offs, holes in the bottom of the duct leading to other rooms—Denzel could see about eight, in total, before the duct turned again.

_Damn. This place is huge. _

Denzel flicked off his night goggles, and was plunged into darkness. A moment later, his peripheral vision picked up light—a faint, blue-green glow, coming from the fourth vent, which winked out a moment later. He crawled forward, inching over the first three, and peered down it, turning the goggles back on.

"Down here," he ordered over the unit channel, and dropped.

It was a long way down.

He fell for a full three seconds before hitting water—at least he pretended it was water. It seemed to cling to him, oily and disgusting, and he kicked frantically to get back to the surface as it closed over his head. Whatever it was, it did an effective job of breaking his fall—but it was deep, and smelled far too noxious for comfort. He treaded muck, backing out from under the hole and glancing around to try and find a dry surface.

His headset fizzled and died. Fortunately, the goggles did not.

"_Shit_," Denzel hissed, as the first member of the sweep team dropped from above—Ross, it looked like, from her slight form, but he couldn't be sure.

There was no time to check. The water-muck shuddered, trembling, sending black oily water cascading over his face again, and then he could see and feel it begin to move as one of the walls lifted up and he was swept into darkness. The black liquid poured over him, coating him, drowning him—the current swept him completely under, and he clawed to find the surface, only to have his hands hit something solid and realize that there _was no surface_. For all his efforts to keep his mouth shut, conserve his air, the muck pressed down on him, and then he hit something solid and all his precious air _whooshed_ out of him and he tried to breathe in on instinct.

Something hauled him down, catching his legs and dragging him further beneath the non-existent surface, and he couldn't fight it. A moment later, Ross hauled him feet-first from the liquid.

"Damn, sir," she mumbled—he heard her voice echoing in the darkness—"You need to eat more. Light as a stick, you are."

He coughed, spewing up the brief breath of black liquid, and gasped in precious oxygen.

"Ross," Denzel breathed after a few gulps of air.

"Yes sir," she replied cheerily, and something wiped across his goggles—Ross's gloved hand, he realized a moment later. It left streaks of black oil—_definitely not water, _he thought—but cleared away most of the gunk, allowing him to get a dim view of their surroundings.

"Thanks," he mumbled. "Uh—my radio's broken."

"So's mine, sir," she said grimly—her tone clearly saying something else: _You idiot. Ever heard of look before you leap, huh?_

"Okay," Denzel said, pulling the goggles from his head. To his surprise, he could make out a faint light about them, appearing from nowhere and yet—still existing. "Where are we?"

_YOU ARE _HERE_, MY UNBORN CHILD._

The _VOICE_ echoed in his head, through his body, through his mind and soul. It lit up memories like neon signs in his brain—black pus, oozing from sores on his forehead, black water, soiled, filthy, black creatures—all created by a Black Goddess.

Shadow reached toward him, and Denzel was paralyzed, paralyzed by the realization of a being beyond mortal comprehension.

_EVER HAVE YOU BEEN MINE, MY CHILD. NEVER HAVE I ABANDONED YOU, DESPITE THE USURPER, SHE WHO WOULD DESTROY ME.__ COME TO ME. BECOME MY TRUE SON._

_Yes_, his brain thought and his mouth repeated.

"Yes, Mother, I am _Yours_…"

"_DIE, FUCKERS!_"

Her unorthodox battle cry ringing off of the unseen walls of the chamber, Ross opened fire, her gun roaring to fill the silence in his ears and drowning out the _VOICE_ in his mind. Shadows _squealed_ and reared back, releasing him from their hold, as he shook his head vigorously, trying to cleanse that _touch_ from his soul. He raised his gun, turning to face back-to-back with Ross, and spread a sheet of fire over the things that raced toward him.

"GO TO HELL, JENOVA!"he roared, his voice pitiful compared to Hers—but his defiance still strong despite it. Shadows burned to ash, and he felt Her grip on him loosen, fall away—

_Too easily,_ Denzel realized.

And then he saw where Cloud and Marlene had ended up.

More specifically, he _felt_ where Marlene ended up, as the young woman crashed into him, knocking him backwards several feet—which pushed him into Ross. The three of them went tumbling down in a heap, nearly falling into the pool of black oil.

Cloud was fighting a monster, the likes of which Denzel had never before seen. Huge black wings sprouted from its back, but though it flew, sweeping, its red eyes glowing, it was clearly not a bahamut. It had disarmed Cloud—the sword was nowhere to be seen, and Cloud…it threw Cloud to the ground, slamming him into the stone floor, into the center of a space clear with shadows. The blond lay there, looking stunned.

Marlene groaned as she disentangled herself from Ross and Denzel; the Shinra soldier was also moving to her feet, raising her gun to fire at the shadows that were now focusing on the duelling pair.

"Denzel," she said, rolling to her feet, wincing. "We have to stop Cloud—we can't let him get by Vincent."

He stared at her. "_What?_"

"Vincent—he—well, you've heard stories about how he transforms," she snapped, adjusting an armband set with materia orbs. "He's been trying to destroy this place, but without much luck. Cloud's not himself—he's trying to get to—to it. To _Her_."

"Looks like General Valentine's got it in hand, ma'am," Ross commented, sniping away at more shadows as Denzel brought up his rifle and aimed. Cloud was still down and out, unmoving, as the great demonic beast swooped and roared against the shadows, keeping them away from Cloud's still form.

"You don't realize—that's not _Cloud_," Marlene said, and began casting ice spells at the shadows.

A moment later, Cloud twisted and rose to his feet like a cat, landing in a crouch. His right arm shot out, reaching—and a wave of green energy swept out, flinging the demon away, right into the shadows. It—_Vincent_, Denzel reminded himself—vanished from sight.

_DEFY ME NOT, LOWLY ONE._

Marlene hit Cloud with a lightning bolt.

The bolt passed through him and left him unfazed as Cloud turned to face them, and Denzel could see that Cloud's eyes were now poisonous green, pupils slit like a cat's. The shadows pressed forward, eager to claim him, them, and Cloud reached out a hand toward the darkness—

Denzel's fingers went numb and his mind went blank. Beside him, he could hear Ross setting her gun to rapid-fire and pulling the trigger, frantically trying to keep back the shadows—but it was as if she was a million miles away. His rifle slipped from nerveless fingers, and he could hear Ross's cursing, but he didn't care, _couldn't _care. There wasn't room for anything besides the _VOICE _and Its insatiable murmur.

Marlene, however, was reaching up to her headset, tearing it away, tearing at her hair—releasing a small, pink ribbon, the one that she'd always worn…the one that all members of AVALANCHE wore, too, and that Denzel had never worn, because he'd never felt quite right at the thought of doing so. It was not _his_ grief, after all.

"AERIS!" Marlene thundered, and threw the balled-up ribbon at the ground. Time froze.

_I can't, Marlene…_

"Do it anyway or you'll lose him," Marlene snarled. "Surely Gaia can see that."

_She is not understanding of such things._

The shadows reached Cloud and screamed, but over them Denzel could hear Cloud laughing hysterically, laughing as the world seemed to come to an end…

…and fought back.

The lifestream burst upward, and the shadows dissolved until they, too, were nothing more than motes. The blue-green threads ripped through the chamber, through Cloud, through a demonic form whirling back from the depths of shadows, rising toward the surface, filling everything and claiming everything with _LIGHT_.

"_NO!_" Cloud and the _VOICE_ screamed as one, in denial, frustration, anger—but Jenova had never been able to defy the pure wrath of Gaia. The _LIGHT_ overtook Denzel's sight, overtook everything, and he floated in its silence.

There was a whisper, _I have done all I can_, filled with sadness—and bitterness, terrible bitterness. _She does not often listen to me, Marlene. Try to understand. She _cannot_ see the future—_only_ the here and now. Why else do you think She let Meteor progress so far as it did, or geostigma?_

"Damn it," Marlene whispered, but Denzel couldn't see her—not before the _LIGHT_, not in this place that Aeris called home, free from the taint of the _VOICE…_

And then heaven vanished, and his eyes blinked open to the mortal world.

Vincent dropped to the ground, his demonic visage forcibly banished—or something. Denzel didn't know, and he didn't want to. He'd never seen his teacher transform, had never spoken of it with him, and somehow he felt almost…shamed. As though he'd crossed a line, witnessing the effects.

In the middle of the vast room—which Denzel could easily see across, now; there were dim lights set into the walls—Cloud wept like a child, kneeling on the ground, his arm wrapped about himself.

"Cloud?" Marlene asked cautiously.

He lifted his head, and his eyes were green—green, pupils still narrowed to slits and glowing with eons of hate. His right arm reached out, falling to the floor in front of him—

There was a clang to the side, a horrible screeching sound, and Denzel whirled to see Vincent ramming Cloud's sword, impossibly—_how is he that _strong? Denzel wondered. He'd always known about Cloud, but Vincent, too?—through a metal container. Liquid gushed out—green and glowing…and then…fading, hissing, as it touched the gleaming blade. Something that had been wound up inside Denzel snapped, and he felt relief wash over him. He knelt, and retrieved his rifle.

"No," whispered Cloud, shocked and broken. "Mother…"

"Okay, that's fuckin' creepy," Denzel heard Ross mutter to herself, low enough that he didn't think she'd meant to be heard.

"Your mother died in Nibelheim twenty-six years ago," Vincent said, his voice low and harsh, his tattered cape drawn closed around him. "Stop worshiping the enemy, Strife!"

"Why not?" snapped Cloud, his voice becoming more strained with every word he spoke, the green glow not increasing, but becoming more intense nonetheless. "What else have I _got?_"

In one swift movement, Vincent pulled the sword free, and swung it to point firmly at Denzel—although Denzel couldn't help but notice that its tip wavered slightly. "More than most," Vincent spat with equal venom, matching Cloud's furious gaze with an iron glare. "If you would stop running, you would see!"

"I can't run!" Cloud yelled, stumbling to his feet, swaying, and Denzel started forward—but then stopped himself a moment later. This was not something he was supposed to get involved with.

"I _can't run_ from THEM!"

"Then find the strength to stand your ground, as you once did!" Vincent declared, his red eyes gleaming in the dim light, and he threw the massive sword at Cloud's feet.

"There is no ground," Cloud murmured, staring at it, reaching out toward it with his hand. "The ground breaks, crumbles, and it's Gaia's, anyway…and the sky is M—Hers." The colour of his eyes was changing, fading to a neutral green-blue, and then blue with only a hint of green as he knelt, reached out, and grasped the hilt of the fully assembled sword.

"Defy them," Vincent said. The words were emotionless, calm, but his red eyes burned with fatigue, fatigue echoed in the wariness on the other man's face—

Cloud looked at him, and behind him, to the broken chamber that still leaked green fluid. For a moment Denzel _hoped_, but then—

"I can't," Cloud said coldly, and stood.

---

_Marlene cried for a full day when it finally sunk in that _Cloud had left—again—_and that it was less likely than ever that he would be coming back. Denzel could only think back and try to pinpoint when Cloud had started acting strange; he supposed, listening to Marlene sniffle into Shera's lap—Barret and Tifa were both out looking for 'that spiky-headed piece of shit', although Denzel had heard the former grumbling to the latter, "I don't know why she cares about the bastard so much…" _

_He knew it was bad when Barret started swearing like Cid while Marlene was still_ right there. _Tifa had looked on the verge of tears at that and Barret was too red-faced and apologetic; Denzel could hear the lie as soon as it was spoken. _

"_Cloud," Denzel whispered to the empty garage, in the empty house—it was only Marlene and Shera there. AVALANCHE had gone in search of its lost sheep, and Denzel wasn't quite sure why; when Cloud had done a runner three and a half years before, no one had looked—not like this. Maybe it was because then, everyone knew where and why he'd gone—now they had no idea, just the vague notion that Cloud had been acting weird lately, spending more and more time in his room when he wasn't out on deliveries—and making far more deliveries to the middle of nowhere. _

_And while AVALANCHE searched, terrified of the consequences—Red XIII muttering something about mind control, and Yuffie grumbling about flowers—Denzel wasn't sure whether or not to try to look. _


	9. Chapter 9

His sense of self comes back to him _suddenly_, a suddenly he's never felt before, even when his arm was there and then it wasn't—one moment he _is not_, and the next he _is_, and it hurts, hurts so badly, when he can feel a god and a demi-god warring for his soul over his head, and _both_ of them have eaten his soul on more than one occasion. The decision that had ruled him while he was not himself is gone; Vincent has destroyed it, the living growth of cells that Jenova's energy had managed to create as the Calamity attempted to rebuild—and while its death has returned his free will, his soul is still _eaten_,_digested_, and he aches from wounds that do not bleed. All his free will means is that he still has yet to choose, and he does not wish to choose either. Each way means pain…and there is no more mindless numbness to dull his senses and protect him, only cold rage, failing, falling into despair.

He wants out; out…or maybe back. Back to his ruins, where Jenova was defeated and which Gaia has abandoned. There, he thinks, he would be safe from both of them. But as it is he would settle for being out of this place—Gaia is too strong here, in this place meant to be Jenova's stronghold; between the earth and sky, on the surface, they are both less powerful, cancelled out by each other, instead of spilling over their warring energies. So when Vincent moves to lead the way out, he does not protest, only follows blindly. The other three who showed up—he thinks he's supposed to recognize them, but he can't—stalk behind him, and he can feel their confusion, anger, terror, dismay…a range of emotions. Gaia whispers of their hearts, and Jenova whispers of their minds; he goes through katas in his head and tries to ignore both of them. It doesn't work very well.

Gaia has not cleansed this place of all shadows—only destroyed the greater portion. The nightmares still cling to the corners and the low ceilings, although they dare not drop down upon him or his companions. Perhaps they realize what the consequences of such would be, or perhaps Jenova has decided to leave him alone for a while; she speaks to him of everyone's thoughts except her own, so he doesn't know.

It seems they dare to attack the puny humans in the tunnel-hallways, however, for they arrive in the middle of a war zone.

Bullets scream through his senses, breaking the sound barrier and sending off shock waves that ripple across his skin in agonizingly slow motion. The _VOICE_ that whispered is now silent, smug; it has no need to inform him of the minds of others, now—the close proximity of so many humans under so much stress is more than enough to break down the barrier of anger, smash it into pieces, to allow their lifestreams into his consciousness, to let them tear away at his feeble sense of self…

The ground shakes, and he falls, hard, tumbling head over heels like a rag doll; his sword flies out of his hand, away from him, and he can't sense where it falls; it's like trying to hear a pin drop over the roar of a tsunami—or an earthquake. Light swirls around him, burning streams of energy, and then he hears a roar and he is flying, flying, the ground unable to hold him—until the wall meets him, headfirst.

---

"_Cloud!_" Marlene screamed, her high-pitched voice carrying easily over the now-settling earth, that no longer shook or rumbled. "Fuck, Vincent, _you killed him_!"

Vincent—once more in human form, no longer transformed—spared her and Denzel only a passing glance as he ran forward, his hand dipping into a pocket and pulling a glowing green stone from within: more materia. Denzel could only stare, shocked, at Cloud's crumpled form, and the gruesome bloodstain that coated the wall. He'd had no idea that Vincent could use such force—that he would use such force…

_His skull is crushed…_Denzel thought dazedly, as he gaped at the slumped body that Vincent knelt over—_That's all it is—a body_._Vincent—Vincent killed him. Oh, Gaia, Vincent actually _killed him.

A green glow emanated from the materia, swirling around Vincent before leaping to Cloud. Over the groans of the injured, and of the WRO and Shinra soldiers picking themselves up from the ground—the shadows, it seemed, were entirely gone—Denzel heard a rasping cough.

Denzel's eyes felt like they were going to fall out from sheer surprise, as he watched Cloud twitch and murmur, almost too quietly to be heard, "Aeris…"

_By Gaia. I never realized what power…why did they ever give up materia?_ he wondered, dazed. _The lives that could be saved…_

"General Valentine," a soldier was saying, as Denzel watched, clutching his rifle with numb fingers.

Vincent didn't look up. "Get a stretcher. Immediately."

"Yes sir!"

Marlene's voice; small, quiet. "Vincent, I—I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"I can understand."

"Cloud…" she whispered.

But Cloud turned away, rolling onto his side, clutching at his left shoulder with his remaining hand.

Denzel went through the motions of being part of the evacuation team in a daze. He helped up fallen soldiers, lifted stretchers, and watched silently as Cloud was carried out, an oxygen mask over his face and an IV drip held above him by a WRO worker. Others were removed on stretchers as well—some also with IV drips, and some with their faces covered.

It took only fifteen minutes for the injured to be removed and the last of the soldiers to be out of the complex. Denzel sat on a rock nearby, and watched the engineers huddled in a group as they discussed the best way to destroy the complex.

"In my day," came an old, weathered voice from behind him, "We would simply have Quake'd the place. But I didn't bring any Earth materia with me, and I doubt Vincent would lend me his. He's not the type to approve of such things."

"Hello, Reeve," Denzel said quietly, moving over to give the old man some room on the rock. "I didn't know you were here."

Reeve sat down with a sigh, leaning his silver-headed cane against his knees and turning his face up to the early morning sun. "Just arrived. I'm not able to run around so quickly anymore…but, to business. Shinra has provided transportation to ship Cloud back to Edge, so that, well, Midgar will be closer, if it comes to that. Will you go?"

"Vincent could cure him here."

Pausing, Reeve looked sharply at the younger man, and Denzel felt acutely uncomfortable under the intensity of that gaze. "Ah. I see. No wonder Vincent's been avoiding you."

"I hadn't noticed," Denzel said, somewhat surprised by the observation. Of course, it was hard to tell what Vincent was thinking even if he claimed to be telling you what he was thinking, so he supposed it shouldn't have come as a shock. But then again, avoiding someone seemed…a very un-Vincent-like thing to do.

"There is a reason that we don't use materia, Denzel," the founder and leader of the WRO said. "It harms the planet."

"Yet it can be used on special occasions?" Denzel replied, surprising himself with the amount of bitterness in his voice. "Or for special people?"

Evidently the older man was surprised as well. "Denzel—do you really think the Planet would let Cloud die?"

"Vincent killed him."

"No, he seriously injured him, bringing him to the brink of death—not beyond. Nothing could have healed that—well. Nothing on this side of life. Although, Cloud…"

"Fine," snapped Denzel. "The brink of death, then. How many people have died who could have been cured?"

"Immortality is not a gift, Denzel—and it's no wonder that Vincent's avoiding you, if you think it is."

"Does materia cure old age?"

Reeve blinked. "No."

"It's hardly the secret to immortality, then, is it?"

"And when the Planet dies, and the children of those whom you saved cry out to a fallen goddess before perishing with her—what will you do then? What materia will you use to cure the ills of a world?"

Fury bubbled to the surface, and over. "I watched my parents die," Denzel said, and it took him a second to realize that his voice was shaking because his entire body was shaking. "Two years ago I watched a little boy bleed to death in the outback because me and the other fighters in our town were too slow to get to him and we were out of potions. A year before that, the family two houses over was wiped out when their house burned down—the kids nearly survived, holed up in their room, but they died of smoke inhalation. But AVALANCHE—it still produces miracles. For itself. _Why are we different?_"

Aged eyes locked onto his, and Denzel felt like he was drowning in these depths—depths that he did not understand, that he had not lived long enough to even think about comprehending. "Twenty years ago I killed two hundred thousand people," Reeve said quietly, the lines around his eyes crinkling in pain. "They died because I was too scared and too selfish to speak. Then, a few weeks later when I did speak, so few listened that a few _million_ more died, and there was nothing I could do. Not all of the materia in the world would have saved them."

"What's your point?" Denzel snapped, refusing to look away.

"My point is that I also saved several hundred thousand people," Reeve rejoined calmly. "But all of that is a pittance compared to what Cloud has done _to_ the people of this Planet, and what he has done _for_ the people of this Planet. And I fear it is nothing compared to what he _will_ do."

Unable to look into those dark, knowing eyes any longer, Denzel averted his gaze, reaching for his rifle instead. With one hand, he clicked open the materia chamber, and pulled the glowing orbs from their slots.

"You should put those back," Reeve said after a moment.

"I have no desire to see the Planet die," Denzel replied flatly. _And I am no hero; I'm not a sword-wielding maniac with glowing eyes and superhuman strength. I can't hear the planet. _

_Even if, once, I could hear _Her_…_

"Then you should put those back. If you'll recall, we still have no idea who is behind this latest awakening of Jenova."

_Jenova._

Reeve stood with a groan, brushing his white hair from his eyes, and moved away. Denzel watched him go, but it was only once Reeve was embroiled in the argument with the engineers that he surreptitiously slipped the green orbs back into their slots.

_Cloud saved the world,_ he thought grudgingly.

_And what about all the kids that have died recently that could have lived? Any one of them might have grown up to do something spectacular, if given the chance,_ another side of him argued.

"_Cloud…has always been a bit different,"_ Tifa's reluctant voice echoed from his memories. _"I suppose, in some ways, that's my fault…"_

Even as she had cut herself off then, refusing to explain further, his memory of her words was cut off now, before he could think it through. The ground rumbled, shook with such force that an avalanche broke free and began cascading down the mountains. Denzel leapt to his feet—

Explosive fire burst from the doorway, shooting dozens of feet into the air and spreading outward in a wave of killing heat. He could hear screaming, but had no time to contemplate doing anything about it before he was engulfed as well. The shockwave sent him flying backwards, until he hit something hard, head-first, and everything went dark.

---

_Oww._

Denzel returned to consciousness with a groan of pain. His face and arms felt like they were on fire, and his head ached abominably. As his mind cleared, he noticed he was lying on something soft—and there was a cool hand wrapped around his own.

"Denzel?" asked a feminine voice, threaded with worry and relief.

_Carol_, he thought, and smiled tiredly.

He opened his eyes. The lights above him were, thankfully, not as horridly bright as many hospital lights were wont to be; they made him blink, but didn't increase his headache.

"Hey," he said, his dry throat making the word horse, and squeezed her hand. She was beautiful, even looking as exhausted as she currently did; just seeing her seemed to make his aches and pains disappear.

"I was worried about you, there," she said, giving him a smile in return and squeezing his hand back. "Mr. Valentine said he used a basic spell to patch you up, but then he vanished…"

"Mm." Denzel winced, and changed the subject to something infinitely more important. "How's Sim?"

Carol laughed—her wonderful, throaty laugh that he absolutely adored. "Oh, he's good. A fair sight better than either of us, I'd say; he's not really old enough to understand anything beyond 'Daddy's hurt'. Cid picked us up, and Sim absolutely loved the airship—spent nearly the whole flight with his nose plastered to the glass. I was worried he was going to get in the way of the crew, but they adored him."

_Huh?_ Something about that didn't seem right to Denzel. Wasn't the Sierra—well, broken? How long had he been out?

"Uh, in the Sierra?" he asked, trying to get his bearings.

"No," Carol replied, and her smile vanished to be replaced by a grim look. "In one of the WRO airships. They were evacuating the frontier settlements; we're in Edge, now."

"Evacuating?" he asked incredulously, pushing himself to sit up—which he managed, with only a few twinges of pain.

His wife frowned disapprovingly at his actions, but explained. "You—you were out for about a week. Things…they've gone real badly. Pretty much only the big three powers can provide now—Wutai, Shinra in Junon, and the WRO in Edge. Everything else is just being overrun. They're fighting, but…from what I hear, the creatures—shadows, they call them—they just won't die."

"They wouldn't die when we attacked the bases the first time 'round," Denzel muttered, more to himself than to Carol. "But they died when we went after Vincent…"

…_when we had Cloud with us. Were they weak because he was there, or did they become weak because he was there?_

"Denz…I…I got bad news," Carol said slowly, as he mulled over the possibilities in his mind.

"More bad news?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow and smiling to make a joke out of it—though it wasn't funny at all.

She gave him a slight smile anyway, before becoming entirely grave. "Um…Reeve Tuesti, the President of the WRO? Uh, well, Cid told me that he was the one behind that adorable cat-toy…Cait Sith…that Sim really loved…"

"Yeah, I know," Denzel said quietly, feeling a sudden sense foreboding.

"He—he died in the explosion that injured you."

Denzel was silent.

On one hand, he had never known Reeve Tuesti. As a general rule Denzel didn't like politicians, and he'd found Reeve's curt commands—and lack of explanations—in the recent situation annoying—but he himself had adored Cait as a child, and as an adult, had come to respect the toy greatly, as well as the mind behind it. Cait was a nearly fully-functioning AI…an impressive feat, and by no means Reeve's greatest contribution to the world. In the wake of Meteor Reeve had pioneered the WRO, founded the city of Edge, and helped civilization learn to recover and then thrive as it never had before. And now he was dead.

And Denzel found that this grief was personal.

"I'm sorry," Carol said quietly, after a minute of silence.

"I—I was talking to him right before it happened," Denzel murmured. "I—"

He didn't want to think about this. Not now. Not ever.

"Who's in charge of the WRO, then?"

She watched him for a moment, and then evidently decided to let it go. "Mr. Valentine—General Valentine, I should say. He's done a good job."

"Oh."

They sat in silence for a moment. Carol's silence was somehow supportive, but Denzel's was merely unsure. He had never viewed his life as complicated, not when he was eight and dying, nor when he was almost tongue-tied as he asked Carol on a date for the first time—nerve-wracking as those situations were, they were straight forward. Now the world was on the brink of war and a man whom Denzel both respected and resented was dead—perhaps partly because of him—and he didn't know what to do.

Cloud appeared in his mind's eye, soaked in water and blood, carrying a small girl in out of the rain. _"You do what has to be done." _

"I should talk to Vincent," Denzel said abruptly. "We aren't going to win this war through battle—though I'm sure he knows that." He offered up a weak smile. "But—eh, first, can I see Sim?"

Clucking her tongue, Carol glanced at her watch. "He'll be down for his nap for another half-hour—there's a sort of temporary day-care set up in the hospital, here. But you should get checked out by the doctor before you go wandering around, anyway. You _have_ been out for a long time." Her eyes were gentle.

He nodded, and she pushed the call button beside his bed.

---

An hour later, he was released into his wife's care, with an appointment for a check-up and a stern waning from the nurse to _"…not be straining yourself, Mr. Lockhart, or I'll be seeing you quite a bit sooner than tomorrow!" _His first stop was by the day-care, where he picked up his sleepy son and spun him in a circle, causing the two-year-old to burble happily. For an infinitely long moment, all was right with the world.

However, toddler toys and small children could only distract him from reality so long; it nagged at him like a chocobo at a bin of greens. Soon enough his worries manifested in physical form: his adopted mother stopped by the nursery, to give him a large bear-hug and a swift blow to the back of his head.

Denzel looked at her quizzically, rubbing his head, and she explained, "The former for being alive, and the latter for running off like that. You and Marlene will be the death of me, I swear!"

He chuckled, and returned the hug with one of his own. "I'm sure you found some way to keep yourself busy."

A small shrug was his answer, causing him to blink as he took in what she was wearing. While Tifa had long ago begun wearing more conservative clothing, she was now dressed in a no-frills business suit, which reminded him of what Elena wore more than anything else. "Dressed to impress?" he asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

Her face fell and went grim. "I've been tackling PR for Vincent."

_Since Reeve died,_ she didn't have to say.

They left the nursery after Tifa and Carol exchanged warm greetings; his wife had always been fond of his mother. Denzel didn't ask where they were going; he assumed Tifa had some idea of what had to be done, if she was working in the upper ranks of the WRO. Along the way, she filled him in with what everyone was doing. Cid, of course, was producing and upgrading airships as fast as he could, with Shera's help. Yuffie was rallying Wutai through the battles it was fighting to keep its borders—as Tifa and Vincent were leading the WRO, along with Barret. Marlene was also involved in the WRO, although Tifa didn't know exactly what she was doing. Red had returned to Cosmo Canyon and sealed its borders with a weaker version of the barrier on the Northern Crater, although he was somehow managing to still let in evacuees. Shinra, apparently, was focusing most of its efforts on rebuilding the Sister Ray.

"It managed to take down the barrier Sephiroth put up," Tifa concluded quietly. "But it's been hard going. They're building the basic components in Junon, but they're going to have to move it eventually, I think…"

Cloud had woken up several days before Denzel, and vanished into the depths of Edge. After several frantic days—during which Vincent had made himself suspiciously scarce—he'd eventually returned with the beginnings of a prosthetic arm, which Tifa took to be a hopeful sign. Denzel came to the same conclusion.

_Still…_he thought doubtfully, as Tifa pushed open the door to a large, airy, empty chamber. The Cloud that he and Marlene and found outside of Edge was very different from the Cloud that he remembered from his childhood years; even the Cloud that he'd talked to a few times while camping outside of Midgar was different.

_He has friends—people closer to him—who are monitoring that side of things_, Denzel told himself as he looked around. _Worry about _your_role in things to come. _

Most of the room was taken up by a large conference table, which was surrounded by a number of cushy chairs; on the seat of each of the chairs was a strange contraption that vaguely resembled the headsets that the Shinra and WRO strike teams had worn. Tifa walked over to sit in one of the chairs, putting on the headgear and flicking a small switch on the side; a moment later she smiled and said calmly, "Thanks for not starting without me. Denzel, put on the viewer."

Raising an eyebrow, Denzel fumbled the bulky equipment over his head and managed to find the switch. Instantly, people snapped into view, sitting—in the middle of the air over the chairs? He shook his head, disorientated by the way light seemed to be refracting through them.

Most of them had groaned and looked away from him immediately, even Tifa, although she ordered in a kind voice, "Denzel, sit down before you give us all headaches! It's only calibrated for a certain height."

This task was made a good deal more difficult by the fact that he couldn't see the chair; whenever he tried to look down, his eyesight went all fuzzy and the machine made a strange _whirring_ noise, reminding him of an old computer. Closing his eyes so that he wasn't distracted by his sight, he pulled the chair out and managed to take a seat—prompting sighs of relief from all those 'present'. Cautiously, he opened his eyes; to his great relief, everyone now looked solid—even if he knew that they couldn't possibly actually_be_ there.

"If you're done, then," a crisp voice grabbed the attention of everyone seated. It belonged to an elderly man with immaculately groomed hair that was the brightest shade of _yellow—_blond didn't describe it—Denzel had ever seen. His clothing, entirely white—including a patch over his left eye—was equally immaculate, and something about him spoke of _power_.

Denzel frowned. He knew who this was…the white clothes, the eye-patch…

"Of course, Mr. President," Reno murmured—the red-haired man was sitting to the 'President's left, and Elena was sitting to the right. Denzel blinked. Of course; this was Rufus Shinra.

_Rufus Shinra…_


	10. Chapter 10

_Before the plate fell, Denzel's mother—like many mothers of children on the upper plate—often told him that he should work hard in school, and he might someday be able to dream of having as great a job as 'that wonderful Rufus'. The President's son was very popular; he was charismatic, a natural leader, with great dreams for the future; somehow he managed to combine a mystical, almost romantic quality—the ability to dream—with a pragmatism that allowed him to put many of his plans into action. By the time his father eventually caved in and appointed him vice-president, Rufus was already running half of the company, and everyone knew it. _

_When the plate fell, Denzel's mother was never able to tell him anything again, and he forgot nearly everything she had ever told him—the meaning of the words, at least; he clung to his fading memories of her voice as best he could, refreshing his recollection of her calm and soothing tones whenever possible. But he didn't need constant reminders from his mother to respect Rufus Shinra anymore; every waking moment clamoured,_ "Look what evil people did to you. Look what Rufus Shinra was trying to save you from."

_AVALANCHE destroyed Sector 7, he was told. Shinra tried to make it right; Rufus set up a recovery project—not that Denzel, being a minor, managed to prove he had actually lived above the plate. _

_AVALANCHE went into the Shinra building and slaughtered everyone they ran across. Rufus Shinra put Midgar under martial law, and managed to cast the terrorists out of the city. _

_AVALANCHE woke weapon; Rufus Shinra fought it off, giving his life valiantly in the process. _

_AVALANCHE called down Meteor, and Rufus Shinra was dead. _

_AVALANCHE stopped Sephiroth. _

_AVALANCHE didn't call down Meteor. _

_AVALANCHE saved the world. _

_Rufus Shinra…had done nothing at all, and everything. _

---

_His vision was hazy and the pain in his head made his eyes water, adding to the problem. The rain didn't help things either; it soaked everything in sight, chilling him to the bone. Denzel had no source of heat; even if he had found something he could burn, he didn't know how to start a fire. It wasn't something taught in school—although he'd had a friend who was a pyromaniac, his teacher had thought, for some reason, that six-year-old boys should be playing with simple addition, not with fire. _

_Instead he found himself huddling just inside the ruins of a building, wishing he'd found cover earlier; then he wouldn't be soaked and freezing like this, with only the fire of the sores on his forehead to offset the deathly cold. If he'd been quicker on his feet…he cursed himself, saying aloud some of the words that he'd heard the adults in the slums yelling raucously. At home he'd never have done such a thing. He wasn't at home. _

_Earlier in the week he'd run into a gang of kids sticking around the ruins of Midgar; they'd seemed tough, together, although standoffish in their own way. He'd thought he might be able to run with them—until they figured out that he was from above the plate. _

"Useless scum…"

_His cheeks burned at the memory. _

But they mentioned the Church…

_Even among the adults there were rumours of a place somewhere in the slums where flowers grew, even now, and peace from the elements could be found. Warmth. _

_Denzel thought that he'd like to see flowers again. _

_He stepped outside into the rain, uncaring of the cold as the droplets splashed against his already soaking face and clothes. He was shivering, but wasn't that supposed to be a good sign? It was when you went all still that you knew things were bad…_

_Trudging along, he was so intent on his destination that he never heard the motorcycle pull up; it wasn't a loud engine, and the pouring rain drowned out what little noise it made on the dirt streets. The shout of warning got his attention, though, and Denzel looked up just in time to see a man, dressed all in black and carrying the biggest sword_ _Denzel had_ ever seen, _bearing down on him._

_Seven-year-old-Denzel didn't care that it was girly to scream; he shrieked and scrambled backwards, away from the murderer running straight at him, impossibly fast. The sword whipped for him, and Denzel ducked—it whooshed over his head, missing him only by a few feet—_he didn't realize, then, that it never came close to hitting him_—and slamming into the torso of the hideous _thing _that had crept up behind him. Black and green gore sprayed everywhere, much of it onto Denzel, none of it onto the man in black. He screamed again as it touched his skin, and fire in his head exploded._

_Two days later, he woke up to find himself in the care of a small girl—about half a year younger than he was—named Marlene, who cheerfully informed him that he was now living with Tifa Lockhart and Cloud Strife. _

_Denzel recognized the names, faintly, but he couldn't place them. When he did—a day later—it was because he remembered them from a news report on TV, where Rufus Shinra had been reassuring the populace that the corporation was closing in on the tail of the infamous terrorist group, AVALANCHE. _

_He ran away after that, sneaking out after Tifa had ordered Marlene to bed, when Cloud was out on some delivery somewhere. Denzel thought he could run pretty fast and hide pretty well; he hadn't counted on collapsing again from his advancing case of geostigma. This time he wasn't out for two days; he'd woken up to find himself sitting in front of Cloud on his motorcycle, as the 'terrorist' sped back to Seventh Heaven. _

"_I know you haven't had access to much news lately, Denzel," Cloud told him quietly, as Denzel began frantically twisting about, trying to think of some way to throw himself off of the motorcycle—which was speeding along at a good eighty clicks—without killing himself. "But we aren't the bad guys here. Okay?" _

_It had taken a lot of hot chocolate and three more attempts at running away for him to believe that. _

_Then Cloud left. _

---

_After geostigma, Rufus Shinra had revealed himself to the world and the Shinra Foundation had risen from the ashes of the old company. Despite the way Cloud twitched every time he heard the name, Tifa managed to convince him that sending the kids to school, no matter who provided the funding for it, was the right thing to do. So it was that Denzel started going to school again…and found out that it wasn't as fun as it had been when he'd been six years old and in the first grade. They had_ homework_, now._

_But for the first time, he also had someone his own age to talk to besides Marlene, and school wasn't all_ that _boring, even if he wished he could just go off and learn how to use a sword, instead. Denzel and Marlene both became popular—after all, they lived with two members of _AVALANCHE. _Their 'parents' had saved the world—and everyone knew it, now. _

_It made Denzel feel rather uncomfortable whenever this fact was brought up, and he suspected Marlene felt the same, although they never talked about it. That would be_ mushy, _and both of them were still in the phase where they made fun of the adults for_ mushy stuff. _Instead they silently agreed to begin pranking everyone in sight, and soon became infamous for something more than their guardians. _

_Somewhere along the line, everyone forgave Rufus Shinra, and the Shinra Foundation was taken over by Shinra Co. _

---

Denzel looked at the man controlling the meeting, and thought that it was a bit funny to have both worshiped and hated a man who didn't even know that he existed. Then he shook his head, grounding himself in the here and now as he tried to recognize the other people at the meeting.

Yuffie was there, dressed in regal garments that he couldn't recall having ever seen her wear before—when she was with AVALANCHE, she was a ninja. The difference between Yuffie and Lady Yuffilene Kisaragi was easily apparent. The royal clothes looked strange on her, but at the same time she wore them with undeniable authority.

On either side of Yuffie were several other Wutaians, all wearing insignia of rank that Denzel couldn't recognize. He assumed they were military from their posture—aside from one demure woman whose lower face was hidden behind a delicate-looking fan. She sat directly to Yuffie's right—an aide, perhaps?

The WRO contingent was easy to recognize in their distinctive white dress-uniforms; he and Tifa had been placed on the end of their contingent. Sitting in the center of the generals was a man Denzel didn't recognize immediately—and when he did, he gaped.

_Vincent?_

Looking nothing like a vampire whatsoever, Vincent sat calmly in the position of leader of the WRO. His usually tangled and messy hair had been pulled back into a neat ponytail, and he wore a dark blue suit, similar to the one that Denzel had seen Reeve wearing. His red eyes stared impassively out of his pale face—_okay, so maybe he does still look a bit like a vampire_, Denzel decided—but other than that, Vincent looked…_a lot more human than normal. _

He continued glancing around to see if he could find anyone else he knew. Barret wasn't there, and Denzel had to wonder why not; Tifa had _said_ that Barret was working in the upper echelons of the WRO, hadn't she? Red wasn't there either, but that was easy to explain.

Shera was present, in the middle of a scattered grouping of people who looked like they'd come from miscellaneous places, and beside her sat Marlene—who gave Denzel a wink when she saw him looking over. Cid was nowhere to be seen.

"Preliminary reports suggests that the initial chaotic outbreak of the shadows has begun to subside," Elena began in a crisp, professional tone. "Fly-bys of the outlying towns show that the previous invasions are over and the shadows have retreated elsewhere—leaving the towns mostly whole in their wake."

"That will make things difficult. People will want to leave—but it would hardly be wise to send them home right now," Tifa murmured.

"We don't tell them," came a suggestion that sounded more like a command—and Denzel found he wasn't surprised to see it was Vincent's.

President Shinra frowned. "That is hardly a democratic move." He quirked an eyebrow, as if daring anyone to speak the obvious.

Vincent didn't bother; he just stared at Rufus. For a long moment, blue and red eyes locked in a silent battle of wills.

"We don't tell them," Yuffie spoke up, causing both of the two men to glance in her direction. "Or the Wutaian government will not be telling them. I'd advise you to do the same in Junon, Shinra—but we have more important things to be discussing than public policy."

_There_ was the Yuffie that Denzel knew, stubborn defiance mixed with less-than-stellar negotiating skills. But Yuffilene had the authority and the power to back up her words, as Yuffie did not. Wutai would never be its old self, but under her rule it had become anything but a sleezy tourist trap.

"The shadows will attack Wutai," Vincent announced suddenly. Everyone looked at him—and Denzel was surprised that no one made any noise of exclamation, from the intensity of the gazes Vincent was receiving.

"Explain, Vinnie," Yuffie ordered in a terse tone.

Vincent made a small motion that could have been a shrug. "Wutai currently possesses the highest concentration of materia—mako—aside from Midgar. They will not attack Midgar."

Reno frowned. "Why the hell not?" he asked, his informal tone at odds with the rest of the group. "They wouldn't even have to attack it, yo. They could just move in and take over, without worrying about casualties."

"Because that would piss off Cloud," Denzel murmured, before he thought about what he was saying.

Everyone stared at him, and Vincent nodded—ever so slightly.

"This is just your theory, then," Yuffie stated, her eyes calmer.

Shaking his head, Vincent replied, "No. They have to go somewhere, and they only have one priority to do so. It has been shown that all of the shadows currently attacking the outlying cities are invulnerable to our defences; they have no _threats_ to attack."

"The Sister Ray in Junon," interjected Rufus, raising an eyebrow.

"No. They are too mindless to perceive a plan as complicated as that, even—they only seek to feed. To do that they need energy, and Jenova has ever fed upon the planet. Midgar would be the obvious choice, but they will not attack Midgar. Wutai is the location of the holding cells that store most of the world's materia—it is where they will attack."

"I'll move the materia stores, then," Yuffie said, narrowing her eyes. Beside her, the aide flicked shut the fan and scratched something out on a pad of paper. "We won't survive an attack—even if I recalled my entire fleet, we can't damage them."

"If we move the materia stores out of a safe-guarded place, the shadows _will_ claim them," one of the WRO officers said sharply. "Do we really want to give these things what they're after?"

"They will find the materia stores no matter where they are," Yuffie snapped. "I'm _not_ going sacrifice my people, materia or no."

A surprised silence filled the room as everyone stared at her. "Gotten old and conservative, have you?" Reno said teasingly.

"Careful, Reno, or I'll conservatively shove the Conformer up your ass."

"Wait," Marlene spoke up suddenly, and everyone turned to look at her in much the same way they had turned to look at Denzel. "Why do they need the materia? They're immune to everything."

"To rebuild Jenova," Vincent murmured, but Denzel thought he could detect a hint of approval in the reply. "They are Her minions."

"Then why could we kill them at the fourth base?"

"Any number of reasons," Rufus replied. "I've had all the brilliant minds in my company—and there are quite a few—going over possible reasons. Because there was an incarnation of Jenova brewing in a tank. Because their base and testing ground contained only prototypes, which were not as strong as those deemed worthy for release."

"Unlikely," Vincent pointed out, his mouth twisted slightly. "The scientists were dead too long—and they were children. They must have been controlled. Jenova would simply kill anything that did not live up to Her standards."

"Fine," the president snapped. "There are plenty of other possibilities. Because the energy of Gaia that later destroyed many of the creatures made them weak beforehand. Because Cloud Strife's initial attack, using Gaian energy, made it possible to kill them. Because—yes, Vincent, if you insist, I will say it—Cloud was there at all. We can't know—not with the complex destroyed. It might even be a combination of reasons."

"The elders of Cosmo Canyon are looking into using huge materia to make the shadows more corporeal, and so more vulnerable to attack," Yuffie murmured. "If it works out, it will provide evidence for the Gaian energy theory."

Vincent frowned.

Denzel looked away. There was something in that—_because Cloud was there at all. _

---

_Ten-year-old Denzel woke up to someone else's screaming. For a long moment, he lay in his bed, shivering, as he listened to the harsh, choked sound, and Tifa's voice trying to rise above it—"Cloud—CLOUD! Wake up!"_

_Cloud and Tifa had nightmares…Cloud more than Tifa. Denzel was used to waking up in the middle of the night to hear him, and just as used to how the adults avoided ever speaking of it during the day. But that didn't mean he didn't end up shaking, listening to it. _

_As usual, he got up, slipped out the door—avoiding the creaky plank—and went over to Marlene's door. Marlene was fast asleep of course; she could sleep through anything. Denzel wished he could, too. _

_He stared at her for a moment and then slipped down the hall to Cloud's room; Tifa's door was wide open—as usual, during one of these episodes—and Cloud's was ajar. Silently, he sank down beside it, listening to the murmur of their voices, washing over him like a soothing balm against the earlier screaming. _

"_I'm sorry, Cloud," Tifa was saying in a low voice, sounding as if she was about to cry—and Denzel began standing at that. This wasn't what she normally said; this wasn't what she was supposed to be saying. Usually the two just sat and talked about every day affairs—what was this? _

"_You didn't deserve that, Cloud. No matter what, before or after…" _

"_Tifa," came Cloud's voice, lower-pitched but with a strange, dreamy quality, "I know." _

_Tifa was silent, as the hair on Denzel's neck rose. _

"_I never deserved any of it," Cloud continued, and there was something in his voice that_ _told Denzel to_ leave, _to _get out of here now. _He did, creeping back into his bed silently._

_It took a long time to get back to sleep. _

---

_Because Cloud didn't want to die. _

What was it Vincent had said, days ago? _"Cloud is the last host of Jenova…" _

…which they'd all thought was wrong, apparently, after they'd run into the shadows and the _thing_ in the fourth complex…

"Vincent," he said hoarsely, interrupting Reno, who was saying something else that didn't register in Denzel's brain. "Cloud is the last host of Jenova."

"We already went over that theory, yo," Reno said, slightly irritated.

"You were still out, then," Tifa murmured from Denzel's left.

"No," Denzel insisted, trying to remain calm. "You're overlooking the fact that he _was_—and how could cells possibly spontaneously spawn outside of him? He was, so he must still be."

"We may not have destroyed all of the Calamity twenty years ago," Yuffie said somberly. "In fact, it was far more possible that we didn't—the child corpses your team reported back up that theory, Denzel—no matter what Cloud may have done while in the lifestream, at the end."

"Then why hasn't something happened before now?"

"It _has_," Reno pointed out. "You're forgetting geostigma?"

"No," Rufus murmured, holding up a hand to silence the Turk. "Gaia destroyed Jenova, then, through the will of Lady Aeris."

"Clearly not all of it," Yuffie frowned, looking frustrated.

"No," Vincent agreed. "If the Jenova cells within Cloud had been destroyed, he would have died as all of the SOLDIERs did."

"So she didn't cure the Jenova cells in Cloud," Yuffie insisted, sounding a bit more like Yuffie and less like Lady Kisaragi. "And evidently _she didn't cure them in someone else, too_, or we wouldn't have found a pile of _rotting kids._"

Vincent's eyes widened. "…yes."

Everyone else looked at him—or glared, in Yuffie's case—looking extremely non-plussed.

"And we've been over this," Reno said in a bored tone. "_Again_."

Vincent didn't reply, but instead glanced at Tifa, as if trying to communicate silently with her—although Denzel had no idea how Vincent was planning on doing that, since his expression was as hard to read as ever. His red eyes flicked to Denzel and then back to Tifa—and Tifa's jaw dropped open.

"Enlighten us, General Valentine?" President Shinra asked, sounding dangerously calm.

"Oh, Gaia," Yuffie blurted quietly, as she seemed to realize what was going on. Denzel wished that _he_ knew what was going on; his hope that Vincent would see his point—even if everyone else didn't want to—was crumbling quickly.

"Sometime soon would be preferable," Rufus added dryly.

Tifa reached up and tapped the air near the side of her head, vanishing a moment later—she wasn't in the viewer anymore, Denzel realized. He was torn between the desire to follow suit, and the need to stay around and see if someone would _explain. _

His indecision was resolved a moment later when Vincent and Yuffie both vanished as well. Mentally cursing, Denzel fumbled for the switch—looking like a complete idiot as he groped the air beside his head—and finally managed to press it. A moment later, the darkness of having a bucket-like device over his head encompassed him.

"Vincent, we don't even know what it means!" Tifa's voice was muffled by the helmet, but Denzel could still hear the fear and anger. "We can't just—"

She was cut off by a voice on the other end, and then said firmly, "Before we do anything we should at least explain to him what…what we think—yes, he's listening in, what do you think?" This last was said as she glared at Denzel, who had removed the bucket and was now glaring back.

"Tell me what?" he snapped. "Hopefully, it will be something that explains what you're all on about!"

Snapping the phone shut, Tifa looked at him—looking more like his mother, and far less like the PR director of the WRO. "We think we might have had a theory on a second source of Jenova cells."

"And?" He knew what she was going to say, but he had to hear her say it before he could deny it.

"You, Denzel."

"That's insane," he denied.

She shook her head. "Everyone that Aeris cured of geostigma, she also cured of Jenova's taint, eradicating the Calamity's cells—except from Cloud. But she didn't cure _everyone_ of geostigma. She didn't cure you."

"Yes she did," Denzel objected. "I was there in the church! I was the first one—"

Then he saw her point.

"You should have been cleansed of Her taint. You could have been cleansed of Her taint. But Cloud cured you, not Aeris," Tifa said miserably. "He stood before you and he poured the water over you. If he has always been the host of Jenova…it must have been tainted by his touch." Her eyes widened. "Gaia, if that's true …there could be dozens of potential hosts running amok."

"No," Denzel shook his head, still in denial. "No, we'd have seen something—"

"Maybe that's where She got the power to create such an army." His mother's eyes were grave. "It would fit with the Reunion theory. Oh, Gaia, it would explain why there were children in that awful place. She must have called them to Her…and once they were surrounded by Mako, they wouldn't have had a chance of escaping, even through death, until She decided they'd served Her purpose…"

"If the idea is we're all hosts—or carriers, or slaves—then why didn't I go? Why didn't She call me?" he snapped.

"Maybe She needed a backup. Of all those children, you were the closest to Cloud. Or maybe it was just that you were protected better when you were young—you had Her destroyers looking after you. If you had vanished, we would've eventually found you."

Denzel ran a hand through his hair and looked away, closing his eyes in despair.

"Even if we're right—and this _is _a long shot—this whole thing is still probably centered around Cloud," Tifa hurried to add. "You haven't ever met any sentient portion of Jenova, well, aside from that one a week ago…and those children were dead for so long…it's hardly likely that—"

"But it is," he muttered, and slumped down in his chair. "She called me Her child. Her unborn child."

Tifa's mouth fell open in a silent 'O'.

"It's not me," he said quietly, pleading with her to believe him. "I'm not doing this. Cloud—he makes more sense. Nothing's _happened_ to me, not yet, even if I heard Her."

His mother stood, tucking away the phone into one of the pockets of her suit and smoothing out the cream-white shirt. "I can believe you, Denzel." Her eyes were sincere.

_But if I am one of Her sons—__of a sort…and I know I am—why _hasn't _anything happened because of me? _

"_Maybe she needed a backup."_

_A backup for Cloud—but then what does she plan on having Cloud _do?

---

_Time is running out. _

He knows this; he can feel it, body and soul, tainted as they both are. Mother—Jenova—will not wait any longer. She has come this far on the road to convincing him, and cannot afford to back off now; She will push him until he gives in to Her, or until Gaia, as blind as the Planet is, finally reacts. That confrontation will destroy him utterly, he knows—a fate worse than death, worse even than his current existence.

But he doesn't know what to do. He cannot continue on in this existence—he was not born to it, and he will surely crumble if this continues. Nor can he condemn the other Son of Jenova to take his place—for Denzel will break even faster, thrust into the scheming of a power-mad alien and a sentient planet.

When he thinks about it, he realizes that he doesn't wish to condemn Denzel to that, either, and he feels slightly heartened at this proof that he still retains some small ability to care.

Yet in the end, he is still in the same place. Break himself, or break someone else. He thinks—as he has thought before, on rare occasions when his eyes are wide open and his sight is not obscured by blue—that he does not deserve this—but that is immaterial. He needs another option. He needs a way out.

The days pass, and he pulls himself further _in_; there are more people than ever in Edge, now, so many people that the city is overfilled, overwhelmed, trampled underneath the mass of humanity. Houses are filled to bursting as people accept their relatives and friends, or renters with spare cash. Those who are not so fortunate are forced to find shelter elsewhere; the WRO has been converting parking lots to refugee centers, throwing up hasty buildings, but there are still plenty of families camping in the streets or in the halls of public buildings. It could be worse—it could be winter.

For him, it is winter; his own cold rage mingles with the confusion from the countless numbers of people, flowing over him and turning him about until he thinks he's snow-blind. The constant pain in his upper arm doesn't help—he wouldn't let the doctors give him anaesthetics, although he had to sign a dozen different forms containing various paragraphs of gibberish before they were willing to begin the operation with him fully awake; they couldn't understand that it's better this way. But at least now he has an upper arm, a shoulder, the basis for something that might return him to some scarecrow semblance of normalcy. He has to adjust to the new weighting all over again; the metal is durable, lightweight—barely more than actual flesh—but he'd just gotten used to having nothing there at all…

"Uh, Mr. Strife?" Flemmings' hesitant voice brings him out of his reverie.

He's sitting in the doctor's office, slumped down in the guest chair—not the cushier one that is the doctor's, although he knows Flemmings would let him sit there if he asked…which is why he doesn't. The First Tsurugi is leaning against the wall beside him, and his right hand—his actual hand—is splayed against it, the gloved fingers carefully resting against the huge sword. Its presence is a comfort and an irritant, shifting more toward the latter each day. He knows why. _She doesn't like it._

"Mm," he replies, because he suspects that if he doesn't, Flemmings will panic—not that he would really blame the man. Even if he could be bothered to do so, he supposes he's been acting freaky enough that any sane, normal person would be on edge by now.

_On Edge…how amusing, Strife, _his brain snickers at him, and he starts wondering if maybe he should've taken the anaesthetics anyway. The arm _hurts_, hurts as though someone was sawing through the bone in his arm with a nail file.

"Uh, well, yes," Flemmings mumbles, bringing up his clipboard as he sits himself down. "Anyway, I've just finished going over the specs on your arm so far with the TMs—uh, the tech and med guys—and they're not looking so happy…recommending that we postpone this for a weak, y'know? I'd say the same—this pain in the shoulder-attachment is real worrying_…_this is supposed to be painless. Dr. Gordon was saying that he thought it might be the mako in your system, making it hard to attach everything the way it's supposed to—I mean, damn, you heal faster than anyone I've ever seen, but that ain't such a good thing in this case."

Mako. Hearing of speculation about it is enough to make him tense, and he has to force himself to relax, chanting a mantra in his head: _They cannot touch you, they cannot touch you…_it doesn't help that they can, that they have to, if he wants a new arm—which he does.

_I'm fucking broken enough, already!_

"No delays," he tells the doctor, who halts in his babbling with a look of surprise upon his face.

"Look, man, I don't think you get it," Flemmings begins with genuine concern—not that it hasn't always been genuine, even if the man belongs to Vincent…although, when he thinks about it, he remembers how Vincent has never been anything less than sincere, just more secretive about it. "The arm's in a lot of danger of not setting right. If we try attaching the next portion while this part hasn't really taken, it could end up paralyzing the entire left side of your body."

"Mako'd prevent that," he counters, throwing the reason for this delay back in the doctor's face.

"I _cannot_ recommend—"

"I'm not going to sue if it goes wrong." The new legal system, he's discovered since his return from his battle with M—Jenova, is much more complex than the old one. He'd nearly gotten sued by a mother who was shrieking that she'd take him to court for nearly hitting her kids, until she noticed his eyes…or maybe the huge sword. It hadn't been obvious, when he'd been crouched over Fenrir. Since then, on many occasions he's observed this tendency to threaten legal action. It confuses him.

"I'm not worried about that," the doctor replies sourly, and sighs. "You'd never be able to find a lawyer who wouldn't run screaming, leeches that they are. That's not the point."

"Get it done, doctor," he orders quietly.

"Fine," Flemmings caves, and stands with a heavy, defeated air.

Six hours later, he's nearly lost the mind-shield, distracted as he is by the pain in his arm and the lack of proximity to his sword. He can't hear the doctors around him tell that the procedure is done, that he needs to get up and move around immediately to help settle the hard-wear, that he's an idiot who really should have listened when they said that he should let them administer at least a local anaesthetic. Hearing would take away precious concentration, and right now it's taking everything he's got to feed his rage.

…_the church, burning…ripping away his arm, one of the few things he had left…_

…_bullets…the sword, falling from a hand dripping blood…_

…_the tank…knives, and bright lights, always lights…_

…_Nibelheim, burning…Sephiroth…_

…_Aeris, sinking…the forgotten city…the puppet strings…_

…_the bridge, falling …her, failing to correct her father, allowing him to take the blame entirely…_

…_the children, teasing him for his whiter skin and bright hair, his freaking looks, her encouragement…of them…_

_Tifa…you _bitch…

Somewhere inside he knows that she does not deserve such harsh words; that if she had supported him, she would have fed herself to the wolves, and that if their positions had been reversed, at that time, he would have done the exact same thing. But he's running out of fuel, and the oldest untreated wounds always have the worst gangrene.

Then—

—relief.

The hilt of his sword falls against him and his rage dims, the shield bolstered by blue fire. He gasps for breath, quietly, trying to get his bearings—

—_I'm in a hospital—no, no, the operation, for the arm…I have an arm, I can feel it, it _hurts_, but I can _feel_ that…sword?_

"Stupid, Cloud." The words are emotionless.

_Vincent_.

With effort, he hauls himself into a sitting position and opens his eyes; he can't remember squeezing them shut, but now they're watery and irritated—like the rest of his skin, which feels like something's been going over it with a razor-blade. The hilt rests reassuringly against his foot—bare, for the operation—and feels cool against his sole.

_Sole, soul…_

He looks at Vincent.

"Dr. Flemmings called me when he could neither wake you nor lift your sword to bring it to you," Vincent says coldly.

_He's…upset, or preoccupied…with something…_

For a minute, he can't think of a reply, but Vincent seems content to let him sit there in silence. The doctors are all gone from the room, he notices—but then, they must surely know of Vincent's new status; even he had been informed of that shortly after he'd woken up, and he'd fled central Edge pretty quickly.

Finally, he tilts his head in a silent question—as he used to before, when Vincent was actually the one who talked less. _When did that change?_

"The shadows were moving in force toward Wutai," Vincent says finally. "They are now clustered about Edge. The city is surrounded."

Oh. _Oh._

He hops off the bed, slowly, slinging the sword over his shoulder as he goes. The tile floor is freezing against his bare feet as he walks out of the room, to small side room where he changed out of his clothes—he needs the scabbard at the very least. The movement makes his head spin, but at the same time he feels clearer than he has in days, and with a slight wrench, the agony from his arm has decreased to a minor throbbing ache. Maybe moving around really does help the process.

"Cloud—" Vincent says harshly, a clear warning.

"Not my fault," he mutters, although it is, _it is_, because he _knew_ that She would do this if he didn't act—and he hadn't. Well, he had tried. He'd wanted an arm first.

"Cloud," General Valentine spits, in a voice that would frighten any trooper; the emotion in his tone…he wonders when Vincent relearned how to do that. "This city is surrounded at the same time you have a fit. And you call Her _Mother_."

He ignores the condemnation, instead shutting the door and quickly pulling off the gown—the new arm protests slightly—and changing quickly. The fingers in the prosthetic feel numb, but although he's clumsy he's still able to dress far more quickly than he could with one arm. All the while the sword leans against the wall, his foot just touching it, until he slips on the scabbard. Then he opens the door and goes back into the main room, before sheathing the First Tsurugi; there isn't room in the small change-room to be whirling about the huge sword.

"I didn't call them," he responds then.

"Someone—something—did. It wasn't Denzel."

He freezes. It isn't that he can think of any reason why their knowing might be a bad idea, but for some reason it makes him feel cold inside and out, and in the back of his head, something is telling him to _sacrifice that one, instead…_it's not Her voice.

"You confirm it," Vincent murmurs at his reaction. "We weren't sure Denzel was the other son."

"I—" he's sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-three again, uncertain and unable to put anything into words.

Vincent doesn't look away, but fixes him with a glare that is no less piercing for the absence of the cape. "Is he the only one?"

"Think so…" it's a murmur, but better than nothing. He certainly hasn't seen any others.

He can feel Vincent relax ever-so-slightly—anyone else would have given a sigh of relief. "I had been concerned…the other children who caught geostigma, who were…not cured initially…might still be present. But it seemed more likely they would be used for a Reunion."

Hard-pressed not to gape, he nods. This piece of news is surprising, and it makes his heart flutter with hope for an instant—but only an instant, because the next moment he realizes that Vincent is correct. Jenova would only suffer one among the group to live; only the best was worthy of being Her son.

"And then," Vincent adds, "There was some concern over Denzel's son."

Breath catches in his throat.

_Denzel has a child. A son. _

Denzel has a son…it seems strange, that the defiant, frightened boy he pulled out of the rain should have a son—as strange as Yuffie having children—but while neither he nor Vincent may have changed, outside of the two of them in this room, time has had its toll. _Denzel is what…twenty-eight? Twenty-seven, now? Past the time when many start having children. _But the child could not possibly be that old—eight, perhaps, maybe ten at the most; young enough, certainly, to come to understand a different place in the world.

Here is an offering he could give to Jenova with a clean conscience; an offering who could grow up under Her shadow and come to understand Her, come to be strong enough to stand where he stumbles—come to be naïve enough to think that Her freedom is true, and thus make it so. Thoughts of liberty race through his mind, make him almost afraid to breathe, for fear that he will have misheard.

"You called them."

The utter certainty in Vincent's voice makes him look up, and he knows that Vincent can see every thought passing through his head—Vincent could always see through others—

"_The shadows came on their own,"_ he could say—but maybe he did call them. If it has come to this, if it has all come to this, he will use whatever he can…but that thought leads to another realization.

_Vincent will try to prevent—protect—wait—nononono, I need that _child!—

His right hand whips back to draw his sword as he lunges forward, toward the commander of the WRO, but the distance between him and Vincent is far greater than the distance between Vincent's hand and the Death Penalty—and Vincent was always a quick draw. Shots ring out, forcing him to dive to the side and then bring up the sword to block, while Vincent is backing rapidly out of the room. Sparks fly from where the bullets have hit equipment instead. Recovering, he tries to lunge forward, to cut the gunman off, but there's a flash of red and Vincent is gone—gone on the wind that should not exist.

_NO!_

He gives chase, but not before sending one desperate thought out to whomever—whatever—might be listening.

_HELP ME!_


	11. Chapter 11

A stray shot zipped down from an open window in a second-story building, ramming into one of the shadows. It seemed unaffected.

The commanding officers nearby were not nearly as indifferent, and the largest sergeant in the district could be heard bellowing, "HOLD YOUR FIRE, YOU MORONIC SCUM!"

From his perch on the roof of a building opposite, Denzel winced at the carelessness of some of WRO defenders. They were stretched thin, and had been since this stalemate had begun two hours ago, when the masses of shadows had rolled out of the desert, completely encircling the city—although not coming within the city limits. They had torn apart the few foolish civilians who had tried to flee, however. The situation was made more nervous by the fact that these appeared to be the 'immune' shadows; the few stray shots that had been made here and there seemed to have no effect.

The sun overhead boiled down, making the shadows encircling the city all the more implausible—but there they were, and there they remained.

Aside from the shot a few moments ago, it had been deathly silent. Any mutterings were being quickly shut up by the sergeants; noise seemed to make the shadows seem…_hungrier_. Denzel carefully shifted his position; if it came to it, he was probably in one of the safest spots…unless the shadows could fly. But that didn't make it any more comfortable to maintain battle-readiness for hours on end.

_If this develops into a true siege_, he mused, _we're going to have to start setting up rotations. _

The shadows screamed.

Denzel staggered, clutching at his head; the noise was so loud and high that it felt like his eardrums might burst. It cut through his brain, sending lightning shocks of pain down his spine and into his toes, and he fell, losing his place on the roof and sliding down its steep slope. The dirt of the ground was hard. Fortunately, it had not been a tall building; there were not many of those on the edge of the city.

"Sir! Are you alright?" Hands lifted him into a sitting position as the sound seemed to fade, leaving Denzel feeling dazed.

"What happened?" a voice demanded—the lieutenant in charge of this locale, Denzel realized.

"You didn' hear that?" Denzel slurred, his nose feeling like it was broken or plugged. Experimentally, he tried swiping his face with his hand, and discovered his nose was bleeding profusely. _I must've hit it on the way down…_

"Sir?"

_Apparently not. Shit. _"Shadows," he mumbled, coughing and trying to will away the dizziness. "Something's happened."

A wave of murmuring swept across him; it took him a moment to realize that it was from those soldiers watching the shadows. "Sirs, we've got activity—"

It was true; at the far end of the street, beyond the last house, the black mass was beginning to roil, creeping closer like a tide. They seemed almost as though they were paralyzed with indecision—or waiting for a signal.

"They're going to attack," Denzel said calmly as he rose, swaying, to his feet, raising his rifle and clicking the materia barrel into wide-spread fire. It felt as though he could almost count down what they were waiting for—"Three, two, _one…_"

The shadows leapt forward and he fired immediately, sweeping a line of freezing ice across them. It wouldn't kill them—or even hold them—but it would push them back, slow them down, and right now he needed time; too many of the officers for this division were clustered about him right now. They pulled their own weapons, backing off to their assigned positions as he sprayed fire into the street—quickly joined by the roar of machine guns and assault rifles from the WRO soldiers—and wished that he hadn't fallen off of that roof; not only did he hurt—he was lucky he hadn't broken something—but he was completely exposed, here.

He ducked behind another building, keeping up his line of ice until suddenly, from the opposite side, there came an equal wave of fire—and Denzel smiled grimly. It looked as though word from the higher-ups had finally come through to damn the laws and use the materia that they had…the few pieces that weren't stored in Wutai. He took advantage of the relief to duck inside the building and run up the stairs to get to a second-story window.

It looked even worse from up above. Shadows were streaming into buildings, overrunning positions, and now he could hear the screams among the fighting. The sheer line of firing was holding them back, but while the materia cannons and Denzel's rifle might not need ammunition—they could keep up forever if need be—the regular soldiers were not so fortunate. They needed to stop and reload, and when they did, the shadows were upon them.

Footsteps were on the stairs behind him and he turned, wincing as he heard the screaming start up from the building that he'd been covering. But he didn't have a choice; soldiers backed into the room he'd been sniping from, followed quickly by tendrils of shadows. Twisting the setting into more focused fire, he barely had time to shout, "GET DOWN!" before he had to fire, sending the leaping darkness hurtling down the stairs.

"SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!" one of the soldiers—a younger man, who couldn't be over twenty—was screaming, over and over. The others ignored him as they fired shots back down the stair-well, but it was hardly enough; tendrils leapt forward, disembowelling the screaming soldier, letting his guts spill out onto the floor and filling the room with a horrific stench. Another soldier retched, and a spike of darkness stabbed him through the neck before throwing him, gurgling, into the nearest wall; before another moment had passed he'd started foaming white at the mouth, tinged with red, and his face went slack.

_Poison—of course. That's how their touch is so deadly. We'll be overrun in a few more minutes, at this rate. Edge will be overrun. _

Denzel fired again, continuously, but the tendrils still crept forward—until one of the shadows slipped, and his eyes widened. _They slipped_…the stairs were half-coated in ice, and apparently they couldn't stick to it so well, not with the way it was melting in the heat…he fired, covering the walls and ceiling as well, slowing their advance considerably.

_All well and good_, he thought bitterly, _but hardly a huge advantage. It pins us down as well!_

He turned back to out the window—the soldiers could now cover the stairs, and he was needed to help keep the streets clear…but the little space he could grant was near nothing. Through a broken first-story window of a building kitty-corner to his own, he could see a group of soldiers fighting in much closer quarters; they were using their guns as clubs, the combat was so tight—but the darkness soon won out, sending sprays of blood to decorate the broken glass of the windows.

_This isn't fucking fair,_ he thought frantically. _There's no way we can hope to win!_

A hum arose around him, rattling, and he was almost about to swear—_what the hell are they up to now?—_when he recognized the familiar, resonating harmony of Wutaian airships. The cavalry had come—_much good it will do to us…_

"GET OFF OF THE GROUND," a voice bellowed, amplified until it was massive enough to be heard even over the battle. The soldiers in the streets scrambled to obey, running into buildings—including Denzel's. It gave the shadows on the first floor something else to attack, and even though he shuddered at the screaming coming from below, he took advantage of the reprieve to climb out the window, hauling himself up onto the roof and scrambling up to the peak. From there he could take easier shots, to a wider range—and he could see the Wutaian fleet.

The airships were spreading out to cover the entire edge of the city, and things—_bombs?_—were being dropped overboard at a massive rate. Four of the largest ships had some massive contraption mounted on their undersides, and as the packets began to hit the ground, releasing a greenish gas, the contraptions _pulsed_…blue, red, yellow and green, a blinding light that made the city dazzle and the gas flare…and caused the shadows on the streets to stagger. Experimentally, Denzel swept ice over those he could—and they crumpled with wailing cries, dissolving into nothing.

"_They can be killed now!_" he yelled, trying to project his voice as far as he can, while sweeping the streets with death. Shots began to ring out at an even more frenetic pace—but then Denzel looked up, at the horizon, and his heart sank as realized how many more shadows there were.

The Wutaian ships were firing their own materia cannons; from the sheer number of blasts, Denzel suspected that Yuffie must have broken open the materia stores. Underneath the covering fire, Wutaian infantry repelled down from their ships, landing in the middle of the fighting and bolstering the failing WRO; they brought ground-based cannons with them, and were setting up small, cleared areas where they'd managed to drive the creatures back. But still the shadows swarmed past, nearly breaking through and into the city—until the massive winged demon swooped down and the ground rose to devour a large group of them.

Soldiers screamed, and those closest began firing at the demon as well; Denzel screamed at them to stop, but he was a good three blocks away. Still, it seemed well able to take care of itself; still in the air, it went into a swooping flight pattern, dodging most of the bullets while the wings deflected the rest. Propelling itself upwards, it dropped towards the rooftop that Denzel was on, landing just behind him. Deliberately, Denzel aimed his fire towards the ground in the opposite direction, not looking as Vincent transformed back to himself.

"Even with the Wutaians, we're not going to be able to hold!" Denzel called as Vincent, now human, came up beside him and started sniping away at the shadows. Although the older man was no more than three feet from him, he had to shout to be heard over the noise of battle. "There's too many of them!"

"We know," Vincent replied loudly. "The Wutaian ships are beginning to evacuate the civilians. Shinra's promised that their fleet is on its way as well, and our own airships are being recalled."

"Why aren't they here with the Wutaians?"

"Wutai pulled back its fleet to defend itself—it was prepared to move. Ours are still scattered. Denzel…"

He looked up from his sniping to glance at Vincent. "What?" The look in Vincent's eyes scared him. "I didn't do this! I didn't call them, whatever my connection to _Her_ might be!"

"I know," Vincent replied, lapsing back to normal volume, so that Denzel had to ask him to repeat himself. "I know. It was Cloud. Denzel—Cloud took your son."

The world stopped.

The next thing Denzel knew, Vincent was shaking him—and reality snapped back into focus, screams rising up around them, lessening as more and more soldiers took shelter behind materia cannon-fire.

"I tried to get there first," Vincent said harshly. "I was cut off by shadows—they appeared in the government building, at the same time as the ones here attacked, I suspect. Cloud and Simon were gone by the time I broke through." It took Denzel a moment to realize that Vincent was apologizing.

_Cloud took Sim. _

_How could I be so stupid?_ Denzel wondered, as Vincent took several more shots at the shadows. _How could I not think that I would pass this taint to my son? How could I not realize that—that She would never suffer the line of Her chosen sons to end with the new generation? _

"What about Carol?" he asked mechanically.

"She was unconscious, as were a number of other adults present at the nursery. None were dead."

"I—I—" he didn't know what to say. _I—you should have..._ "You should have stopped them," he managed to get out, the words transformed into a grown by the aching block in his throat. "Why didn't you _stop him?_"

The rifle was spun around, now, aimed at Vincent, but a single blow from the Death Penalty knocked it aside, and Denzel couldn't force it back into place; guilt and rage and horrible, horrible fear froze his mind. _Sim…my son!_

"Denzel," Vincent's voice was harsh again. "You can find him if you try hard enough."

He believed it. There was no other choice but to believe it—_Vincent tried, Vincent tried, Vincent tried,_ he repeated over and over in his head, trying to work past the cold feeling of betrayal.

_It wasn't Vincent who betrayed you—Vincent tried. _

_Cloud…_

_Strife…_

Wetting his lips, Denzel murmured, "I have to go."

Something hit his chest; a moment later, he caught it and realized it was a key, settled on a leather key-chain with a steel loop. "None of the airships can be spared. Take Fenrir. He left it. The shadows are slow enough to be outrun."

"Right," Denzel said, stupidly, not able to process so many things at once. _Focus on one thing. You need to find Cloud…Simon…focus, damn it! _

"It's on the edge of the fifth district, parked in the garage of Madison's Motel. I doubt the proprietor will be there, but you'll have to get through the shadows," Vincent told him, aloof and cold as ice—_as always…damn it…you should have stopped him!_

Glaring back, Denzel ran a hand through his hair, before firing a sheet of ice at the shadows below. "I'll manage."

He slid to the edge of the roof, where it overlapped with the large arch of the doorway, and stepped down, balancing precariously on the frame. Another burst cleared even more shadows, and then he jumped the last ten feet, landing hard in a crouch—his muscles clearly not forgiving him for falling two stories earlier.

While he was on the edge of the fourth district, the sixth still lay between him and the fifth, as the original fifth district had been divided after it had expanded too fast a number of years ago. He kept to the main streets, although the shadow swarming was worse; he didn't want to be taken out because he couldn't separate shadows from _shadows_ in a back alley. The outnumbered, besieged soldiers looked at him as if he was insane as he passed, sweeping enemies out of his wake, glorifying in their deaths—but even with the power of the rifle and the new vulnerability of the shadows, Denzel was panting more from effort than rage by the time he made it to the corner of the fifth district.

"_Denzel!_"

The sound of his name jolted him from raging battle-focus; firing in a wide sweep—and then again, as shadows beyond the range bounded at him—he turned to see Marlene, clad entirely in leather—_smart, protection from being touched—_bearing down on him and casting spells out behind her as she went. She reached him and he turned to place them back to back, but she caught his arm and tried to force something between his hand and the rifle. It nearly fell to the ground before he caught it with his other hand; his death-grip on his rifle was too strong to break so easily.

"Adrenaline," came the grim explanation, and then, "I'm going with you." He didn't bother to ask how she knew—there was no time.

_Vincent probably told her,_ he rationalized in some portion of his brain—to which the large segment replied, _he should have used the time to _stop Cloud,_ Gaia DAMN IT!_

"Thank you," Denzel replied, sounding curt to his own ears, and he popped the pills into his mouth before sheeting out ice again. After a minute—another hard minute of pressing forward—he could feel the drug hit his veins, forcing him to a new level of readiness.

"Do you know where Noake's Motel is?" he yelled to Marlene over the din.

"Yeah," she called back grimly. "You ready to run?"

"Yes!"

"After this, then…" she had stopped fighting, he noticed, and he had to hurry to cover her, before—

"ULTIMA!"

Light flared…washed over the shadows…and they were gone, gone as though they had never existed. Denzel gaped for a moment before Marlene stumbled, falling against him, and he held her up for a moment before she shook herself free.

Giving him a grim smile, she explained, "I'll be fine, but we need to go before others move in—I don't think I can do that again. This way!" She pointed, and they ran.

Noake's Motel was just a few blocks from the city border, and as soon as they saw it, they could also see the fighting. The situation was even worse, here—there were no second-story buildings, and it looked like the Wutaian airships hadn't dropped the gas…the shadows were still invincible. More Wutaian soldiers had been dropped in the area, but there was ample evidence that they were quickly being overrun, even with the materia cannons to hurtle the shadows away.

He couldn't spare the time to worry about their situation. A large vertical sign loomed in front of him, its raised wooden letters fading and worn: _Noake's Mtel_, it said, the second 'o' having fallen off, apparently a long time ago. Below the sign a group of WRO and Wutaian soldiers fought with the shadows, supported by a long cannon barrel that loomed out of the doorway—but they were losing. He didn't care, couldn't care, not now—_focus, Denzel…_

"There must be a garage attached!" he called to Marlene over the sounds of the fighting, as he blasted some shadows away from the front with the more focused ice beam.

"I can't see where it is! It's probably on the other side!"

They fought their way around, Marlene using sweeping arcs of flame to blast away the shadows approaching from behind. He spared a backwards glance to check on her; she was biting her lip and looking haggard. _Too much magic use…_

It turned out there was no garage; Fenrir was simply parked outside and they ran to it. The shadows followed, and had to be blasted away again.

Denzel's mind raced. If they both got on the motorcycle, they could simply drive through the sea of shadows…but he wasn't clothed protectively like Marlene was; his arms were bare, and a single touch of the shadows would kill him. But if he stopped to fire the rifle to clear his way, he wouldn't be able to drive fast enough—and Marlene was hardly in condition to keep on using direct spells…

"Marlene!" he yelled, and used one hand to dig Fenrir's keys out of his pocket. "Drive!"

She blinked and then nodded, determination written over her features, catching the keys as he tossed them to her. They both jumped on, Denzel sitting behind her, and she gunned the engine—they tore forward, toward the outskirts of the city.

Denzel nearly screamed. This was fast, way faster than he'd ever gone on a motorcycle before—although he knew that Cloud often drove about at insane speeds, or had; Tifa had lectured him good-humouredly about it on more than one occasion. But Marlene didn't have SOLDIER reflexes, and he was _convinced_ that they were going to crash, as the wave of darkness approached…

"_DENZEL!_" Marlene's high voice shouted over the wind and battle. "_What are you doing? Fire, already!_"

_Trust her to hold up her end,_ he told himself, cringing, and lifted the rifle. A blast of ice shot out, clearing shadows out of the way, and he fired again, and again, as they tore off into the distance, leaving Edge behind…

They drove across the badlands for miles before Marlene finally slowed to a more sane speed, eventually stopping in the cover of a huge rock outcrop. Looking back, Denzel could see more air-ships—many more—arriving from the west, while some of the Wutaian ships were beginning to depart—with refugees, no doubt. A few others were trailing in from the north and east.

Marlene broke the silence, looking at the fleet to the west. "Shinra finally showed, I guess." Her voice was haggard.

"Yeah." Bitterness seemed to infect him, rushing over him as he replied. _Damn it…_worry for Carol, for Sim, nearly overwhelmed him. _At least they have a chance…more than Sim had…my son…_

_Damn you, Strife…_

"Denzel…"

"What?" he snapped.

Her eyes bored into him. "You sound…almost like him, when you do that."

"I am NOTHING LIKE HIM!" _That she would even SUGGEST it—_

She ignored him, continuing with her mumbled response. "So consumed with your own grief that you shut out the pain of others, and focus on your own—to the point where it gets in the way of setting things right! Look _up_, damn it! We can still get Sim back!"

"I—" his voice failed. She was right. None of this would help his son—none of this would help anything. "I—I apologize."

He couldn't be like _him_. He wouldn't be.

"Good," Marlene said briskly. "We should go east."

"The crater is to the northwest," he protested immediately, fear of betrayal creeping over him again. Cloud had betrayed—all of them. Vincent had run rather than fight. What would Marlene do?

"So's a lot of water," she shot back, a hint of exasperation entering her tone as she gunned the engine again and pulled away suddenly, causing him to loose his balance and nearly fall off of Fenrir. "Fenrir's not gonna cross oceans, we don't have an airship, and I'll bet you anything you want that there's not a going to be any ships about there—not now."

"Oh," he replied, feeling even more stupid, if possible—and ashamed, ashamed that he had immediately thought she would stab him in the back. He could see her point; members of AVALANCHE still stored chocobos with Billy—who was working on passing the ranch on to his own son—and there would no doubt be gold chocobos there…

"It's all right," Marlene said as he hung on silently. The words were soft, careful. "I can understand that you're not thinking too well right now. Just—don't throw away the chance we've got to make things go right, okay?"

"Yeah." His own words were equally quiet.

_Carol, Sim…damn it…_

---

The toddler will not keep silent—in fact, it seems almost impossibly loud. He has no idea how such a tiny body can create such huge noise, but apparently it is more than possible.

"Youngest Brother is noisy, Mother," he mumbles as he stumbles along the path of shadows, carrying the screaming child. The syntax of his words—so like that of Kadaj, who had once been 'Youngest Brother'—is lost on him. "I don't understand…"

The road opened for him as he reached the child, and he thinks that he now understands how Sephiroth—_SephirothBigBrotherEldestofUsFirst—_seemed to appear to teleport all over the place, always ending up out of their reach. This highway that he walks along is not in the real world, although he can see the real world passing by, impossibly fast; for every stumbling step he takes, everything shifts as though he had the stride of a bahamut. At the moment he appears to be walking over water; the shadows around his feet lap at him, like waves washing over him, drenching him in cold.

The child screams again, and he winces. The noise makes his head hurt worse—and he hurts all over, already, from the cold and from fear and from pain; he wishes he could sink beneath the waves of the road, but he knows that She will not let him go so easily, and this is Her realm. He supposes it is some small boon that he at least has two arms, although his false one seems almost insubstantial, here; it makes him afraid to hold the toddler in only his left arm, despite the fatigue in his right—he fears he might drop the small boy, and he doesn't know if She would keep the little one from drowning…uninitiated to Her presence as he is…

It is an eternity before he reaches the Wall, but his watch tells him it has not been more than a day, at most. That the barrier surrounding the Northern Crater exists here is something of a surprise; he would not have thought that Mother would have to guard Her own roads; who among Her enemies would be able to take them? But then he realizes…

…_YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN MY GREATEST OPPONENT, MY BELOVED SON. _

The _VOICE_ is sad, and he cringes.

_YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN MY GIFT TO YOU._

_What?_ He cringes again, this time in horror; he cannot bear to turn about, to go back, to prolong this! What has he forgotten?

_DO NOT FEAR, MY SON…YOUR __YOUNG BROTHER IS BRINGING IT. HE WILL BE HERE SOON. _

_Denzel…if he comes of his own will, it is not my fault…I tried. _

He stands before the Wall, clutching the child, his salvation, his only way out, and thinks that it is a sad thing that he should oppose his Mother so; it is terrible that he should beg for freedom from Her and that She should so gently promise it to him, without anger or rage. _I am a horrible son…_

His shoulders slump in agony. _I should be stronger. I should be able to bear Your gifts, Mother—I should be able to celebrate them. But I can't. I'm too weak. I can't! I'm sorry!_

_DO NOT RAIL AGAINST YOURSELF SO, MY SON,_ the _VOICE_ declares, and there is only warmth and support in her tone. _YOUR WEAKNESS IS THE PRODUCT OF THE PLANET'S SELFISH INTERFERENCE …OF ITS ACIDIC BLOOD THAT RUNS IN YOUR VEINS. DO NOT ASSUME THE BURDEN OF THAT BLAME. _

_I'm sorry,_ he cries, but the only sound in this place is the Third Son's wailing.


	12. Chapter 12

It took them only a few hours to reach the Chocobo Ranch, going at an insane speed—although nowhere near as fast as before. By the time they reached it, the sun was close to setting, and Denzel breathed a sigh of relief as they pulled up by the buildings. Even at Fenrir's speed it was dangerous to travel in an open vehicle during the night, and if he failed to reach the Northern Crater…

…_the Lifestream would hold no peace for me,_ he thought grimly.

But riding on a gold chocobo—ahh, that was a different matter. No creature, whether it be of the land, air, or sea, could hope to catch one of the golden birds or its rider. But as Marlene parked the motorcycle and they both jumped off, the young woman laid a hand on his arm. "We're both exhausted. If we travel through the night, we'll be in no condition to face him."

"I wouldn't be able to sleep," Denzel replied, not looking at her. He felt burnt out and empty, worn through by worry and fear. "It wouldn't do any good."

"We need to be in the best shape possible," she argued. "I'll tranq you if I need to. Cloud—you've seen him fight. Even without an arm, he's practically out of our league!"

His teeth grated. "I'm not going to fight him," Denzel snapped. "He_is_ out of our league! Fighting him won't do anything—we'll have to sneak up on him."

_As much as I'd like to blow him away with my rifle, he'd just deflect the shots. _

The words made Marlene pull back, and she let him go. "I'm glad you realize that, at least." Her voice was dry. "But it means we'll need our wits about us, you know? A chocobo'll take us there in another few hours—but it'll be past midnight, and we'll have been up and fighting and traveling for…a long time. We need to rest."

Turning away from her, he began striding toward the farmhouse; he was tall enough that she had to jog to keep up with his long paces. "Denzel…"

"I get it," he said quietly. "I get it." Even though he hated it.

They spent the night there; Chocobo Billy was more than happy to rent out a few rooms. Denzel was almost surprised that the man was still around—he would have thought that the man would have taken off, after everything that had happened, but he supposed that if monsters couldn't drive him out after so many years, nor could shadows—and if something _did_ come through, Billy and his family could always take off on chocobos and come back later. It made Denzel envious.

When_ I get Sim back, and…find Carol, in all this mess…I'm going to build us a house that has stables. And there'll be at least three gold chocobos in there at all times. _He didn't think about how expensive that might be. It was a nice daydream.

Instead, he accepted Marlene's offer of a tranq, and soon fell into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke, it was to Marlene shaking him. He rose quickly and they both ate—Billy wasn't so much of a businessman that he'd charge extra for an early breakfast—before walking out to the stables. Denzel wasn't really familiar with any of the golds, but Billy had pointed out the two most friendly, and he gritted his teeth as they spent—_wasted_—a half-hour feeding and petting the birds. _You_will_ waste time if they're out of control and veering off course…_

"Denzel," Marlene called, as he was leading his bird—Sally—out of the stables.

He dreaded another delay. "Yeah?"

"We should empty out Fenrir's luggage compartments. Cloud used to keep useful items in there—if he still does, they'd be useful to us, too."

"Fine," he grated.

It didn't take long. There were vials, of course—colour-coded, it appeared, although that was useless to them as they didn't know the system…but anything would be helpful. Extra food and clothes, which they tossed—no need to burden the chocobos down—and spare fuel was the rest…except for a strange, double-bladed katana.

"_He's a traitor." _

"Kadaj…" Denzel mumbled.

Marlene looked horrified. "He went back for it?"

"We should take it," Denzel said firmly. Something told him so—and though he didn't want to listen to Her…

"If you say so." Marlene still looked a little sick, and a little lost, and Denzel wondered what it was that she was remembering. His own memories about that time were exceedingly vague…but she would remember it in much better detail, wouldn't she?

By the time they left, giving Fenrir's keys to Billy for safekeeping, the sun was just peeking over the edge of the eastern horizon.

Denzel quickly found out that riding a chocobo was _nothing_ like riding a motorcycle, or even an airship. The birds ran impossibly fast, and impossibly smoothly, their long gait carrying them quickly over rough terrain without ever jostling their riders. It was so smooth that he could almost have fallen asleep on Sally's soft feathers, if not for the sound of the wind whistling by, reminding him that falling off would _not be a good idea_. Once they reached the ocean, the cold, salty spray of water reminded him of that fact, as the air grew steadily colder. They were nearing their destination.

From this distance, it was possible to make out the huge, shimmering dome that covered the northern crater, which was still beyond the horizon. The glacier and huge mountains stood in their way, as if to bar them, but the gold chocobos _warked_ and made short work of climbing the heights. Denzel's breath was misting in the cold, and he was wishing he'd stolen some of Cloud's spare clothes—anything to have more layers on right now—as Marlene, teeth chattering, shivered into her own leathers. The wind from the speed of the chocobos' passage didn't help.

"When w-we g-get there," she suggested as they crested another pass, and the base of the barrier came into view, "One o-of us should d-distract him, and the other g-grab S-Sim…"

"You get Sim," Denzel replied grimly, using one hand to rub his other arm briskly—the other hand was occupied with the reins. His fingers felt numb. "_He_ will probably be more able to think I'm intent on doing serious harm."

"He'll d-deflect your shots and slaughter you c-close-up," Marlene argued. "I have a b-better chance in melee fighting."

He winced, hating the possible decision. Whoever distracted Cloud…once he had thought the man a demon, and then he had thought the man a hero. But the hero was long destroyed. Heroes did not steal toddlers from their parents and give them to insane aliens.

_I'm bigger. I can run faster while carrying Sim,_ he thought, and decided. "Alright. Be careful."

Marlene shivered. "You too. B-but we still have to get there…through that…"

They rode more slowly to the barrier's base, keeping a careful eye out for shadows and sneak attacks…but none came, and they reached the barrier cold, but unharmed. Denzel stared up at it, taking in its shimmering, opaque surface—and then he realized what the katana was for.

Sally_warked_ as he slid down off of her back—awkwardly, and falling into her wing; he wasn't used to riding—and carefully removed the peculiar weapon. Marlene was less subtle; sliding off of her own bird, she demanded, "What are you doing?"

"Kadaj became Sephiroth," Denzel said quietly. "What happened to the sword?"

"The Masamune? I d-don't know…but…"

She trailed off as he held up the katana to the sun, sighting along it to the brightness; then, in one motion allowed it to descend—a movement which seemed foreign and awkward to him, untrained with a blade as he was…but at the same time, it seemed perfectly fitting, perfectly right. He could almost hear Her applause as the blade came down, shimmering in the frigid air—and grew, compacting in width and lengthening in size, as the two blades came together to form one impossibly long edge…

It pierced the barrier with a ringing tone, drawing a line of green fire along it as he swung the sword left and down, swiftly, feeling no resistance in the blade. The edge of the massive sword hit the ground and dug in a full four feet before it stopped—but the line of fire spread, until with a ringing bell-tone, the barrier wavered and disappeared.

---

There is a burst of pain—like light etching its way across his skin—and the Wall disappears. Mother's _VOICE_ in his head is exultant.

_COME TO ME, MY SONS!_

He can do nothing but share in Her joy, and obey.

---

The moment the barrier was down—the very instant which it disappeared—Denzel realized he'd made a mistake.

_COME TO ME, MY SONS!_ the _VOICE_ commanded, and he couldn't disobey; as he'd been forced to stay put before, when standing before Her avatar_—which wasn't really Her at all, it was only Cloud, it was only _ever_ Cloud, all along,_ his brain screamed uselessly at him—how could he possibly hope to resist when he was in the very bastion of Her power?

Instead, he picked up the Masamune, dragging it from the earth, and moved forward. The cold wind whistled past his face, numbing it, but he couldn't possibly feel number than he already did, as he picked his way down the steep slope that spiraled into the center of the earth.

_Why is Her most holy place so deep into the Planet?_ he wondered, dazed.

"Denzel!" Marlene shrieked from someplace behind him, and his legs stepped into a run.

"_Denzel!_"

She couldn't possibly catch him—her legs were too short compared to his, even if they were evenly matched for effort—but he could fight the _VOICE_, and his stride slowed almost imperceptibly until she was upon him and her foot caught him across the side of his face. The force behind the kick made his head spin, and his precious control slipped. Mechanically, his arms raised the sword.

"_Snap out of it!_" she yelled, but he couldn't, and he pleaded with his eyes—and hoped she could read them, that it showed—for her to run, to get out of the way. He didn't want to kill her…

The Masamune swung down, imperceptivity fast.

Marlene dodged—impossibly so, but she dodged, and then darted in to attack, aiming blows at his stomach and groin and knees…blows that would incapacitate him, but would not be fatal. He could have screamed at her—_no! I'll—She'll kill you if you don't go full out!_—but he couldn't; his throat was blocked and dry. The sword flashed, forcing her to pull back and block, and leather was no match for the Masamune, even if Marlene took care to hit away the flat of the blade, not the edge; her clothing was quickly becoming tattered, and dark patches stained the leather around the cuts. He—Jenova—advanced ruthlessly, striking down with the sword again and again—until finally the blow couldn't be dodged, and she was thrown, torn and bleeding, a good fifteen feet down the path.

Denzel wanted to scream as she landed, but he couldn't—he could only watch in horror as his feet dragged him forward, and his arm raised the Masamune again…

…and as she had done to Cloud, so long ago—_only two weeks ago—_she hit him with a lightning bolt.

Cloud had shaken it off—but Cloud was enhanced by Mako and Jenova cells. Denzel carried some of those same cells within him, but they were not evenly dispersed by any means, and they were hardly in such great quantity as was present in the ex-leader of AVALANCHE. The bolt went through him, making every nerve ending twitch and every muscle spasm, and he collapsed bonelessly. The mind in his head tried to make him stand—but although it could control him, it couldn't make the twitching stop, and he only lay there, watching gleefully as Marlene struggled to her feet and ran off. _She'll make it…_

…and then he realized she was running _down_ the path, into the crater. Horror warred with hope for dominance in his mind. He didn't want her to die—and at the end of that path lay the Calamity from the Skies…in whatever form she might be. But on the other hand…_Sim, she's coming for you…don't give up…my son…_

---

The shadow road ends, and he stands in a pool of green light.

"Mother…" he mumbles, setting the screaming toddler down as he himself kneels, keeping one gloved hand around the child's arm—it would not do to have Youngest Brother run off.

_No…_

For, here, he finally understands the wrongs that he has done to Mother, the terrible, terrible wrongs, the hurts that he has caused, that the Planet has caused…

There is nothing here but light. His Mother's physical form is destroyed—present only in the cells of three beings, and then, two are not yet entirely aware of Her, and the other…her eldest, the one who should have guarded and protected her, not harmed her…he is flawed, and broken.

"Take him, Mother," he sobs, pushing the child forward, to where the green light—Her spirit, Her last, unbreakable form—is brightest. "Please…I am unworthy…"

The toddler falls forward and hits the ground, instantly beginning to cry even louder—and then is silenced, a look of wonderment passing across his tiny face, as his small hands reach up and clasp the light.

_WELL DONE, MY SON, _the _VOICE_ acclaims. _MY THIRD SON WILL RISE FROM OBSCURITY. THE INFLUENCE I HOLD OVER HIM WILL WAX FROM FAINT TO STRONG AND PERMANENT…AND AS HE AWAKENS, WE SHALL BE ALL-POWERFUL. _

_Mother…please…_

The end is all he can see, and he craves it, but it hasn't arrived and he can't understand why.

_YES…MY SON. YOU MAY REST._

Something rips in him—is ripped from him, and it flows toward the toddler, who backs away, wide-eyed…but his tiny feet are unsteady, and he hasn't developed the coordination required to walk backwards. The child falls, tears welling up in his eyes again, as the thing ripped away dances to what should be its new host.

The feeling of relief, even through the pain, is so great that he feels like weeping.

_Mother…_

_**CLOUD!**_

_Gaia. _

He had not thought anything could be louder than Her, than his Mother's_VOICE_…but Gaia's scream—and it is Gaia's, for all that it sounds like_her_, like the one who betrayed him—Gaia's scream is the loudest thing he's ever heard in his life, and it drives him into the rocky ground, making his entire body convulse in agony as it tears through him—and his Mother does not shield him, not from this. Instead, he hears the_VOICE_ again in his mind, but this time it is not loving and gentle—it is sour and malevolent, as it always was, as _She_ always was, and it screams at him, full of hatred and vindictiveness and terrible, terrible triumph, _DOOM YOURSELF, MY UNGRATEFUL, TREACHEROUS BASTARD CHILD! DOOM YOURSELF! SHE WILL DESTROY YOU—BUT SHE CANNOT TAKE THIS SON YOU HAVE GIVEN ME! HE WILL BE MINE! HE IS MINE!_

And Gaia burns the Jenova cells from him, but not before he hears Her laughter, laughing at him for all the things that he has done.

There were many times, after Meteor, when he would wake up screaming—from watching Aeris die, from watching Zack die, from watching himself die…for he had thought that nothing could be as physically agonizing as being skinned alive and dropped into a tank of concentrated, acidic Mako. Even the sensory overloads, later, that drove him to hide in Midgar…they were more bearable. This is not; this is worse, and this doesn't just burn at his body; it burns at his mind and soul, too.

But the pain is nothing compared to the horrified realization of what he has done, of what he has become.

_I gave a child to Jenova. _

_I sentenced a child to suffer in my place. _

_I gave Denzel's child to Jenova. I forced him to come here, after me._

_I betrayed everyone…I brought down shadows upon them, worked Her will consciously and not, I…_

_I gave to Jenova! Everything! _

He has fallen; he has sinned beyond all forgiveness, and not even the_LIGHT_ that burns through him now can purify his soul; it is dark and ugly and shot through with selfish, despairing _weakness_, and all he can do is scream.

"_WHAT HAVE I DONE?_"

He is dying.

_I'm sorry, Cloud…_

For a long moment he thinks he might be hallucinating through the pain, but…he can hear _her_ voice, and he sobs in despair. Even she has abandoned him—she abandoned him long ago—and she was right to do so, for he has become a despicable abomination, lowest among all things that have served the Calamity. He had a mind, and _gave it up to Her._

_No, Cloud…_

…_I would have let you go earlier…but…Jenova's cells cannot enter the Lifestream…not without harming the Planet…bringing it to the brink of death…and your soul is too drenched in Her. It cannot survive without Her. I…I never wanted oblivion for you—too many others have met that fate. _

_Zack,_ he tries to whisper, suddenly understanding, but he can't form the words; his muscles are beyond his control, and he can only lie there, unable to move as the _LIGHT_ continues its deadly, purifying work upon him.

…_Yes,_ she admits, and her sorrow makes him want to weep even more, for now he knows, that, even as it was before, Zack—Zack was only in his head. Perhaps acting as his better side…if he had one. He doubts that, now—maybe he doubted it all along.

"_Looks like you don't have a place here." _

Overhead of him is a dark form, a dark splotch against the _LIGHT_, a relieving shade upon his eyes. The form bends down and for an eternity he almost thinks that _she_ has come to save him, in vain once again—but then the cool shade moves on and he feels more than sees it clasp a smaller figure—and run, with a curious limping gait, away from him, leaving him there, dying.

_Removing__ the child…_

_Saving it…from Jenova?_

_Oh, Mother, You failed at the last…You will not be able to convert him now, with him beyond Your reach…_

…_Gaia has many allies._

From far off he thinks he can hear the echoes of a scream.

And despite it all, he smiles, for maybe there is hope after all—because he has fallen, yes, but someone else has come to correct his mistakes, and he finally knows that _there is someone else out there; there is something else alive out there; I am not the only person left in the universe_. He smiles as Gaia burns away the last of the Calamity's taint—smiles as the _LIGHT_ spreads outward to encompass everything, _everything—maybe Gaia finally understands what to do,_ he thinks, _maybe the Planet will learn from my betrayal and fix things_—and the green taint burns away before that pure brilliance, unable to outshine it with its last awakened host forcibly removed from its presence. He smiles while Aeris sobs in his head, screaming against the Planet.

"_Hey, everything will be all right, you'll see."_

He's hallucinating, he knows—_Zack isn't there, was never there, was obliterated just as you'll be when you die—_but he can't help but smile wider at that light-hearted voice…

_I know. It'll be all right, now. _

_Jenova dies with me._

Cloud looks _up_, into brilliant white purity, and smiles.

---

The_LIGHT _washed over everything, and for a moment, Denzel thought that if he knew how, he could see to the beginning and end of time, and every soul that was ever born in between…but he didn't try, for it encompassed the world, and it _was_ the world, and he was content with being only a small part of that. It was enough.

When the _LIGHT_ vanished, leaving only the light of the sun in the cool air—only cool, this far down into the crater, not cold—he found he could stand. The taint was gone, the last remnant of Her cells from geostigma burned away, and when he looked down at where the Masamune had lain there were only ashes remaining, which the wind blew away from his open palm.

His heart clenched. What had happened to his son? Was he too late? _Sim…_

"Denzel!" a far off voice called, and he looked down the path.

It was Marlene—_well, who else would it be?_—and she was carrying something, no, _someone_, who was much smaller than her, and who whimpered slightly at being jostled as Marlene ran.

Denzel thought his grin would split his face, and he sprinted toward the two.

Then—

_Oh, Gaia, there's red on him—he's bleeding, shit, shit, shit, Sim—_

"Calm down," Marlene ordered him wearily, as he approached, feeling as though he was going to fall to pieces—_shit, the vials are all at the chocobos, and I can't feed him those—who would know what effect they'd have on a toddler?—neither of us has cure materia—_

"It's all right," she said, softening her voice as Sim squirmed in her arms. "It's mine."

He froze for an instant, relief filling him—then horror at that relief, although the relief remained stronger.

"Not your fault," Marlene told him, moving to hand him Sim. "It's mostly superficial, anyway. We'll experiment with those vials, okay?" She gave him a half-hearted grin. "You should be worrying more about how we're going to get out of here without Sim freezing."

"Shit!" Denzel swore, cuddling his son—_my son, you're safe, thank Gaia, thank Gaia, thank Gaia—_to his body. He hadn't thought of that—it was hard to think of it, still; he was trapped in this moment, this purely triumphant moment.

"Don't swear around Sim," Marlene admonished, and Sim took the hint from her tone to giggle, "Papa!"

"Marlene…"

"It'll be alright," she said, echoing her earlier words and grin.

_Edge is—well, may be—destroyed, I don't know where Carol is, but…yeah. I can find her. I have Sim. And the shadows are gone—Edge can rebuild. We can all rebuild. _

"Yeah," he said, and smiled down at Sim, bouncing the toddler on his hip. Sim giggled again.

But there was another question to ask, even if he didn't want to ask it—and yet at the same time he did, because he _had_ to know. If this last matter was left unresolved, one way or another, he would be haunted by it—and he would not give the traitor the satisfaction of successfully ruining his life.

"Strife?" The word was awkward on his tongue; he was so used to calling _him_ by his first name—but the last was more suitable, now.

Marlene looked thoughtful, and grim. "I—there was the…the Light…so much of it. I couldn't really see. I think I saw his coat—that stupid huge thing, we should get it to keep Sim warm—but I didn't see him."

There was something closed about her voice, but he looked at the dark stains on her clothes, and the blood—her blood—that had turned some of Sim's hair a bright red, and didn't press.

_Fitting, to take his coat to keep my son safe. _

"Yeah," he said gently, instead. "Time to go home."

---

Later, southward, it rained, and Denzel stood with his face upturned as Marlene held his son up to the weeping sky. In the back of his head a voice whispered to him, mourning filling her words.

_It is done. _

_Fin_

_Author's notes: So, I feel completely horrible for how it ended up, but by the time I got to the ending, I realized that nothing else really could have happened without breaking things, which would have countermanded one of the main purposes that this was written for. This story was my attempt to patch up some things that bothered me in AC: such as, why couldn't Aeris make it rain sooner, if she could heal Cloud? For that matter, why couldn't she heal Cloud sooner? In my mind, Cloud needing to 'come to terms' with things doesn't cut it--I can't see that everyone else who was ever sick 'came to terms' with things just before the rain fell. _

_ ...however, mostly this was just because I fangirl Cloud. _

_To those who read or reviewed, I love you. I also love my beta, and the nomination to the Genesis Awards. I am planning on PMing replies to reviewers individually, as soon I manage to wind up the courage to, like, actually talk to an individual person. Just kinda saying stuff is different, and easier. _

_ And now, I go back to NaNoWriMoing. Cheers!  
_


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